I 


The  Family  Mansion. 

Drawn  by  Allan  Barrand. 


204.) 


Ubc  Sketch* Book 


(Bcoffreg  dragon,  (Sent. 


I  HAVE  NO  WIFE  NOR  CHILDREN,  GOOD  OR  BAD,  TO  PROVIDE 
FOR.  A  MERE  SPECTATOR  OF  OTHER  MEN'S  FORTUNES  AND  ADVENTURES, 
AND  HOW  THEY  PLAY  THEIR  PARTS  ;  WHICH,  METHINKS,  ARE  DIVERSELY 
PRESENTED  UNTO  ML,  AS  FROM  A  COMMON  THEATRE  OR  SCkNE." 

BURTON. 


LONDON 
24  Bedford  Street,  Strand 

Ubc  Hmcfeerbocher  press 
1895 


COPYRIGHT,  1894 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Electrotyped,  Printed  and  Bound  by 

Ube  Ifcnfcfcerbocfcer  press,  mew  l£orb 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


oik 


-     "'  v   • 


fll 


V,2_ 


Contents 


THE  STAGE  COACH 

CHRISTMAS  EVE 13 

CHRISTMAS  DAY     .......    32 

THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER 55 

LONDON  ANTIQUES So 

LITTLE  BRITAIN 9° 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON Il6 

TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER  .        .        .       .149 

PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET 1 68 

JOHN  BULL '97 

THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE      .        .        .        .216 

THE  ANGLER 237 

THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW     .        .        .  248 

L'ENVOI 3°4 

APPENDIX 3°^ 


Illustrations 


THE   FAMILY    MANSION   ....  Frontispiece 

Drawn  by  Allan  Barraud 

THE  STAGE  COACH 

Drawn  by  Allan  Barraud 

"THE  CHAISK  STOPPED  AT  THE  GATE  " 

Drawn  by  Allan  Barraud 

"ONE   OF  THE   MOST    BEAUTIFUL  LITTLE   FAIRY 

GROUPS" 

Drawn  by  Arthur  Rack  ham 

"AFTER  DINNER  THE  YOUNG    FOLKS    WOULD 
PLAY  HIDE  AND  SEEK  " 

Drawn  by  Arthur  Rackham 

THE   AMERICAN  WINDOW— STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

PARISH  CHURCH 

From  a  photograph 

HOLY    TRINITY    PARISH     CHURCH,     STRATFORD- 
ON-AVON  .  .  .  ...  .146 

From  a  photograph 

"  TO  HAUNT  THE  SIDES  OF  PASTORAL  STREAMS, 


6 

16 

34 
106 


"ICHABOD       CRANE'S        SCHOLARS 
WERE   NOT  SPOILED"      . 


CERTAINLY 


From  a  drawing  by  F  O.  C.  Darley 

"HE     WAS      BOARDED      AND     LODGED     AT     THE 
HOUSES  OF  THE  FARMERS  WHOSE  CHILDREN 

HE  INSTRUCTED  " 

From  a  drawing  by  F.  O.  C.  Darley 

"IN    THE   MEANTIME    ICHABOD    WOULD    CARRY 
ON  HIS  SUIT  UNDER  THE  GREAT  ELM  " 

From  a  drawing  by  F.  O.  C.  Darley 

"  ICHABOD  PRIDED  HIMSELF  AS  MUCH  UPON  HIS 
DANCING  AS  UPON  HIS  VOCAL  POWERS  " 

From  a  drawing  by  F.  O.  C.  Darley 

"THE   HAIR  OF  THE  AFFRIGHTED  PEDAGOGUE 
ROSE  UPON  HIS  HEAD  WITH  TERROR  "  . 

From  a  drawing  by  F.  O.  C.  Darley 

"AWAY  THEY  DASHED,  STONES  FLYING,  AND 
SPARKS  FLASHING  AT  EVERY  BOUND  " 

From  a  drawing  by  F.  O.  C.  Darley 


254 


260 


294 


298 


SfcetcMBooh 


(Beoffrey?  Graven,  Cent. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK 


ZIbe  Stage  Goacb 

Omne  bene1 

Sine  poena 
Tempus  est  ludendi. 

Venit  hora 

Absque  mor£ 
Ubros  deponeudi. 

Old  Holiday  School  Song. 

the  preceding  paper 
I  have  made  some 
general  observa- 
t  i  o  n s  on  the 
Christmas  festiv 
ities  of  England, 
and  am  tempted 
to  illustrate  them 
by  some  anec- 

dotes  of  a  Christ 
mas  passed  in  the 

country  ;  in  perusing  which  I  would  most 
courteously  invite  my  reader  to  lay  aside  the 
austerity  of  wisdom,  and  to  put  on  that  gen- 


Sfcetcb*:)Boofc 


nine  holiday  spirit  which  is  tolerant  of  folly, 
and  anxious  only  for  amusement. 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  York 
shire,  I  rode  for  a  long  distance  in  one  of  the 
public  coaches,  on  the  day  preceding  Christ 
mas.  The  coach  was  crowded,  both  inside 
and  out,  with  passengers,  who,  by  their  talk, 
seemed  principally  bound  to  the  mansions  of 
relations  or  friends,  to  eat  the  Christmas  din 
ner.  It  was  loaded  also  with  hampers  of  game, 
and  baskets  and  boxes  of  delicacies  ;  and  hares 
hung  dangling  their  long  ears  about  the  coach 
man's  box,  presents  from  distant  friends  for 
the  impending  feast.  I  had  three  fine  rosy- 
cheeked  boys  for  my  fellow-passengers  inside, 
full  of  the  buxom  health  and  manly  spirit 
which  I  have  observed  in  the  children  of  this 
country.  They  were  returning  home  for  the 
holidays  in  high  glee,  and  promising  them 
selves  a  world  of  enjoyment.  It  was  delight 
ful  to  hear  the  gigantic  plans  of  the  little 
rogues,  and  the  impracticable  feats  they  were 
to  perform  during  their  six  weeks'  emancipa 
tion  from  the  abhorred  thraldom  of  book, 
birch,  and  pedagogue.  They  were  full  of 
anticipations  of  the  meeting  with  the  family 
and  household,  down  to  the  very  cat  and  dog  ; 
and  of  the  joy  they  were  to  give  their  little 
sisters  by  the  presents  with  which  their  pock- 


Cbe 


Coacb 


ets  were  crammed  ;  but  the  meeting  to  which 
they  seemed  to  look  forward  with  the  greatest 
impatience  was  with  Bantam,  which  I  found 
to  be  a  pony,  and,  according  to  their  talk, 
possessed  of  more  virtues  than  any  steed  since 
the  days  of  Bucephalus.  How  he  could  trot ! 
how  he  could  run  !  and  then  such  leaps  as  he 
would  take — there  was  not  a  hedge  in  the 
whole  country  that  he  could  not  clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship 
of  the  coachman,  to  whom,  whenever  an  op 
portunity  presented,  they  addressed  a  host  of 
questions,  and  pronounced  him  one  of  the  best 
fellows  in  the  world.  Indeed,  I  could  not  but 
notice  the  more  than  ordinary  air  of  bustle 
and  importance  of  the  coachman,  who  wore 
his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  and  had  a  large 
bunch  of  Christmas  greens  stuck  in  the  button 
hole  of  his  coat.  He  is  always  a  personage 
full  of  mighty  care  and  business,  but  he  is  par 
ticularly  so  during  this  season,  having  so 
many  commissions  to  execute  in  consequence 
of  the  great  interchange  of  presents.  And 
here,  perhaps,  it  may  not  be  unacceptable  to 
my  untravelled  readers,  to  have  a  sketch  that 
may  serve  as  a  general  representation  of  this 
very  numerous  and  important  class  of  function 
aries,  who  have  a  dress,  a  manner,  a  language, 
an  air,  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  prevalent 


4  ZTbe  Sfcetcb*:fiSoofe 

throughout  the  fraternity  ;  so  that,  wherever 
an  English  stage-coachman  may  be  seen,  he 
cannot  be  mistaken  for  one  of  any  other  craft 
or  mystery. 

He  has  commonly  a  broad,  full  face,  curi 
ously  mottled  with  red,  as  if  the  blood  had 
been  forced  by  hard  feeding  into  every  vessel 
of  the  skin  ;  he  is  swelled  into  jolly  dimensions 
by  frequent  potations  of  malt  liquors,  and  his 
bulk  is  still  further  increased  by  a  multiplicity 
of  coats,  in  which  he  is  buried  like  a  cauli 
flower,  the  upper  one  reaching  to  his  heels. 
He  wears  a  broad-brimmed,  low-crowned  hat ; 
a  huge  roll  of  colored  handkerchief  about,  his 
neck,  knowingly  knotted  and  tucked  in  at  the 
bosom  ;  and  has  in  summer-time  a  large  bou 
quet  of  flowers  in  his  button-hole  ;  the  present, 
most  probably,  of  some  enamored  country  lass. 
His  waistcoat  is  commonly  of  some  bright 
color,  striped,  and  his  small-clothes  extend  far 
below  the  knees,  to  meet  a  pair  of  jockey-boots 
which  reach  about  half  way  up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much 
precision  ;  he  has  a  pride  in  having  his  clothes 
of  excellent  materials  ;  and,  notwithstanding 
the  seeming  grossness  of  his  appearance,  there 
is  still  discernible  that  neatness  and  propriety 
of  person,  which  is  almost  inherent  in  an  Eng 
lishman.  He  enjoys  great  consequence  and 


s  ! 


Cbc  Stage  Goacb 


consideration  along  the  road  ;  has  frequent  con 
ferences  with  the  village  housewives,  who  look 
upon  him  as  a  man  of  great  trust  and  depend 
ence  ;  and  he  seems  to  have  a  good  understand 
ing  with  every  bright-eyed  country  lass.  The 
moment  he  arrives  where  the  horses  are  to  be 
changed,  he  throws  down  the  reins  with  some 
thing  of  an  air,  and  abandons  the  cattle  to  the 
care  of  the  hostler  ;  his  duty  being  merely  to 
drive  from  one  stage  to  another.  When  off 
the  box,  his  hands  are  thrust  into  the  pockets 
of  his  great-coat,  and  he  rolls  about  the  inn- 
yard  with  an  air  of  the  most  absolute  lordli 
ness.  Here  he  is  generally  surrounded  by  an 
admiring  throng  of  hostlers,  stable-boys,  shoe 
blacks,  and  those  nameless  hangers-on,  that 
infest  inns  and  taverns,  and  run  errands,  and 
do  all  kinds  of  odd  jobs,  for  the  privilege  of 
battening  on  the  drippings  of  the  kitchen  and 
the  leakage  of  the  tap-room.  These  all  look 
up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle  ;  treasure  up  his  cant 
phrases  ;  echo  his  opinions  about  horses  and 
other  topics  of  jockey  lore ;  and,  above  all, 
endeavor  to  imitate  his  air  and  carriage.  Every 
ragamuffin  that  has  a  coat  to  his  back,  thrusts 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  rolls  in  his  gait,  talks 
slang,  and  is  an  embryo  Coachey. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owing  to  the  pleasing 
serenity  that  reigned  in  my  own  mind,  that  I 


fancied  I  saw  cheerfulness  in  every  countenance 
throughout  the  journey.  A  stage-coach,  how 
ever,  carries  animation  always  with  it,  and 
puts  the  world  in  motion  as  it  whirls  along. 
The  horn,  sounded  at  the  entrance  of  a  vil 
lage,  produces  a  general  bustle.  Some  hasten 
forth  to  meet  friends  ;  some  with  bundles  and 
bandboxes  to  secure  places,  and  in  the  hurry 
of  the  moment  can  hardly  take  leave  of  the 
group  that  accompanies  them.  In  the  mean 
time,  the  coachman  has  a  world  of  small  com 
missions  to  execute.  Sometimes  he  delivers  a 
hare  or  pheasant  ;  sometimes  jerks  a  small 
parcel  or  newspaper  to  the  door  of  a  public 
house  ;  and  sometimes,  with  knowing  leer  and 
words  of  sly  import,  hands  to  some  half- 
blushing,  half-laughing  housemaid  an  odd- 
shaped  billet-doux  from  some  rustic  admirer. 
As  the  coach  rattles  through  the  village,  every 
one  runs  to  the  window,  and  you  have  glances 
on  every  side  of  fresh  country  faces  and  bloom 
ing,  giggling  girls.  At  the  corners  are  assem 
bled  juntos  of  village  idlers  and  wise  men, 
who  take  their  stations  there  for  the  important 
purpose  of  seeing  company  pass ;  but  the 
sagest  knot  is  generally  at  the  blacksmith's, 
to  whom  the  passing  of  the  coach  is  an  event 
fruitful  of  much  speculation.  The  smith, 
with  the  horse's  heel  in  his  lap,  pauses  as  the 


Cbc 


Coacb 


,  l 


vehicle  whirls  by  ;  the  cyclops  round  the  anvil 
suspend  their  ringing  hammers,  and  suffer  the 
iron  to  grow  cool  ;  and  the  sooty  spectre,  in 
brown  paper  cap,  laboring  at  the  bellows,  leans 
on  the  handle  for  a  moment,  and  permits  the 
asthmatic  engine  to  heave  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
while  he  glares  through  the  murky  smoke  and 
sulphureous  gleams  of  the  smithy. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holiday  might  have 
given  a  more  than  usual  animation  to  the 
country,  for  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  everybody 
was  in  good  looks  and  good  spirits.  Game, 
poultry,  and  other  luxuries  of  the  table,  were 
in  brisk  circulation  in  the  villages  ;  the  gro 
cers',  butchers',  and  fruiterers'  shops  were 
thronged  with  customers.  The  housewives 
were  stirring  briskly  about,  putting  their 
dwellings  in  order  ;  and  the  glossy  branches 
of  holly,  with  their  bright-red  berries,  began 
to  appear  at  the  windows.  The  scene  brought 
to  mind  an  old  writer's  account  of  Christmas 
preparations  :  ' '  Now  capons  and  hens,  be 
side  turkey,  geese,  and  ducks,  with  beef  and 
mutton — must  all  die — for  in  twelve  days  a 
multitude  of  people  will  not  be  fed  with  a  lit 
tle.  Now  plums  and  spice,  sugar  and  honey, 
square  it  among  pies  and  broth.  Now  or  never 
must  music  be  in  tune,  for  the  youth  must 
dance  and  sing  to  get  them  a  heat,  while  the 


aged  sit  by  the  fire.  The  country  maid  leaves 
half  her  market,  and  must  be  sent  again,  if 
she  forgets  a  pack  of  cards  on  Christmas  eve. 
Great  is  the  contention  of  holly  and  ivy, 
whether  master  or  dame  wears  the  breeches. 
Dice  and  cards  benefit  the  butler,  and  if  the 
cook  do  not  lack  wit,  he  will  sweetly  lick  his 
fingers. ' ' 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  med 
itation  by  a  shout  from  my  little  travelling 
companions.  They  had  been  looking  out  of 
the  coach-windows  for  the  last  few  miles,  rec 
ognizing  every  tree  and  cottage  as  they  ap 
proached  home,  and  now  there  was  a  general 
burst  of  joy.  "  There's  John!  and  there's 
old  Carlo  !  and  there's  Bantam  !  "  cried  the 
happy  little  rogues,  clapping  their  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane  there  was  an  old  sober- 
looking  servant  in  livery,  waiting  for  them  ; 
he  was  accompanied  by  a  superannuated 
pointer,  and  by  the  redoubtable  Bantam,  a 
little  old  rat  of  a  pony,  with  a  shaggy  mane 
and  long  rusty  tail,  who  stood  dozing  quietly 
by  the  roadside,  little  dreaming  of  the  bustling 
times  that  awaited  him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which 
the  little  fellows  leaped  about  the  steady  old 
footman,  and  hugged  the  pointer,  who  wrig 
gled  his  whole  body  for  joy.  But  Bantam  was 


Stacje  Coacb 


the  great  object  of  interest ;  all  wanted  to 
mount  at  once,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty 
that  John  arranged  that  they  should  ride  by 
turns,  and  the  eldest  should  ride  first. 

Off  they  set  at  last ;  one  on  the  pony,  with 
the  dog  bounding  and  barking  before  him,  and 
the  others  holding  John's  hands  ;  both  talking 
at  once,  and  overpowering  him  with  questions 
about  home,  and  with  school  anecdotes.  I 
looked  after  them  with  a  feeling  in  which  I  do 
not  know  whether  pleasure  or  melancholy  pre 
dominated  ;  for  I  was  reminded  of  those  days 
when,  like  them,  I  had  neither  known  care 
nor  sorrowr,  and  a  holiday  was  the  summit  of 
earthly  felicity.  We  stopped  a  few  moments 
afterwards  to  water  the  horses,  and  on  resum 
ing  our  route,  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  us  in 
sight  of  a  neat  country-seat.  I  could  just  dis 
tinguish  the  forms  of  a  lady  and  two  young 
girls  in  the  portico,  and  I  saw  my  little  com 
rades,  with  Bantam,  Carlo,  and  old  John,  troop 
ing  along  the  carriage-road.  I  leaned  out  of 
the  coach-window,  in  hopes  of  witnessing  the 
happy  meeting,  but  a  grove  of  trees  shut  it 
from  my  sight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where  I 
had  determined  to  pass  the  night.  As  we 
drove  into  the  great  gateway  of  the  inn,  I  saw 
on  one  side  the  light  of  a  rousing  kitchen-fire 


beaming  through  a  window.  I  entered,  and 
admired,  for  the  hundredth  time,  that  picture 
of  convenience,  neatness,  and  broad  honest  en 
joyment,  the  kitchen  of  an  English  inn.  It 
was  of  spacious  dimensions,  hung  round  with 
copper  and  tin  vessels  highly  polished,  and 
decorated  here  and  there  with  a  Christmas 
green.  Hams,  tongues,  and  flitches  of  bacon, 
were  suspended  from  the  ceiling ;  a  smoke- 
jack  made  its  ceaseless  clanking  beside  the 
fireplace,  and  a  clock  ticked  in  one  corner.  A 
well-scoured  deal  table  extended  along  one 
side  of  the  kitchen,  with  a  cold  round  of  beef, 
and  other  hearty  viands  upon  it,  over  which 
two  foaming  tankards  of  ale  seemed  mounting 
guard.  Travellers  of  inferior  order  were  pre 
paring  to  attack  this  stout  repast,  while  others 
sat  smoking  and  gossiping  over  their  ale  on 
two  high-backed  oaken  settles  beside  the  fire. 
Trim  housemaids  were  hurrying  backwards 
and  forwards  under  the  directions  of  a  fresh, 
bustling  landlady  ;  but  still  seizing  an  occa 
sional  moment  to  exchange  a  flippant  word, 
and  have  a  rallying  laugh,  with  the  group 
round  the  fire.  The  scene  completely  realized 
Poor  Robin's  humble  idea  of  the  comforts  of 
mid-winter. 

"  Now  trees  their  leafy  hats  do  bear 
To  reverence  Winter's  silver  hair  ; 


Cbe  Sta0c  Coacb 


"A  handsome  hostess,  merry  host, 
A  pot  of  ale  now  and  a  toast, 
Tobacco  and  a  good  coal- fire, 
Are  things  this  season  doth  require."  * 

I  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn  when  a  post- 
chaise  drove  up  to  the  door.  A  young  gentle 
man  stept  out,  and  by  the  light  of  the  lamps  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  countenance  which  I 
thought  I  knew.  I  moved  forward  to  get  a 
nearer  view,  when  his  eye  caught  mine.  I  was 
not  mistaken  ;  it  was  Frank  Bracebridge,  a 
sprightly,  good-humored  young  fellow,  with 
whom  I  had  once  travelled  on  the  continent. 
Our  meeting  was  extremely  cordial,  for  the 
countenance  of  an  old  fellow-traveller  always 
brings  up  the  recollection  of  a  thousand  pleas 
ant  scenes,  odd  adventures,  and  excellent  jokes. 
To  discuss  all  these  in  a  transient  interview  at  an 
inn  was  impossible  ;  and  finding  that  I  was  not 
pressed  for  time,  and  was  merely  making  a  tour 
of  observation,  he  insisted  that  I  should  give 
him  a  day  or  two  at  his  father's  country-seat, 
to  which  he  was  going  to  pass  the  holidays, 
and  which  lay  at  a  few  miles'  distance.  "  It  is 
better  than  eating  a  solitary  Christmas  dinner 
at  an  inn,"  said  he  ;  "  and  I  can  assure  you  of 
a  hearty  welcome  in  something  of  the  old- 
fashioned  style."  His  reasoning  was  cogent, 
*Poor  Robin's  Almanac,  1684. 


Cbe  5fcetcb=OBoofc 


and  I  must  confess  the  preparation  I  had  seen 
for  universal  festivity  and  social  enjoyment 
had  made  me  feel  a  little  impatient  of  my  lone 
liness.  I  closed,  therefore,  at  once,  with  his 
invitation  ;  the  chaise  drove  up  to  the  door, 
and  in  a  few  moments  I  was  on  my  way  to  the 
family  mansion  of  the  Bracebridges. 


Gbristmas  Bx>e 

Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 
Blesse  this  house  from  wicked  wight ; 
From  the  night-mare  and  the  goblin, 
That  is  hight  good  fellow  Robin  ; 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 
Fairies,  weezels,  rats,  and  ferrets  : 

From  curfew  time 

To  the  next  prime. 

CARTWRIGHT. 

IT  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  ex 
tremely  cold  ;  our  chaise  whirled  rapidly 
over   the    frozen   ground ;    the    post-boy 
smacked  his  whip  incessantly,  and  a  part 
of  the  time  his  horses  were  on  a  gallop. 
"  He  knows  where  he  is  going,"  said  my  com 
panion,  laughing,  "and  is  eager  to  arrive  in 
time  for  some  of  the  merriment  and  good  cheer 
of  the  servants'   hall.     My  father,    you   must 
know,  is  a  bigoted  devotee  of  the  old  school, 
and  prides  himself  upon  keeping  up  something 
of  old  English  hospitality.     He  is  a  tolerable 
specimen  of  what  you  will  rarely   meet  with 
nowadays  in  its  purity,  the  old  English  country 
gentleman  ;    for  our  men  of  fortune  spend  so 


fi 


much  of  their  time  in  town,  and  fashion  is  car 
ried  so  much  into  the  country,  that  the  strong, 
rich  peculiarities  of  ancient  rural  life  are  almost 
polished  away.  My  father,  however,  from 
early  years,  took  honest  Peacham*  for  his  text 
book,  instead  of  Chesterfield  ;  he  determined 
in  his  own  mind  that  there  was  no  condition 
more  truly  honorable  and  enviable  than  that 
of  a  country  gentleman  on  his  paternal  lands, 
and  therefore  passes  the  whole  of  his  time  on 
his  estate.  He  is  a  strenuous  advocate  for  the 
revival  of  the  old  rural  games  and  holiday  ob 
servances,  and  is  deeply  read  in  the  writers,  an 
cient  and  modern,  who  have  treated  on  the  sub 
ject.  Indeed  his  favorite  range  of  reading  is 
among  the  authors  who  flourished  at  least  two 
centuries  since  ;  who,  he  insists,  wrote  and 
thought  more  like  true  Englishmen  than  any  of 
their  successors.  He  even  regrets  sometimes 
that  he  had  not  been  born  a  few  centuries  earlier, 
when  England  was  itself,  and  had  its  peculiar 
manners  and  customs.  As  he  lives  at  some 
distance  from  the  main  road,  in  rather  a  lonely 
part  of  the  country,  without  any  rival  gentry 
near  him,  he  has  that  most  enviable  of  all 
blessings  to  an  Englishman,  an  opportunity  of 
indulging  the  bent  of  his  own  humor  without 
molestation.  Being  representative  of  the  old- 
*  Peacham's  Complete  Gentleman,  1622. 


Cbristmas  five 


est  family  in  the  neighborhood,  and  a  great 
part  of  the  peasantry  being  his  tenants,  he  is 
much  looked  up  to,  and,  in  general,  is  known 
simply  by  the  appellation  of  '  The  Squire '  ; 
a  title  which  has  been  accorded  to  the  head  of 
the  family  since  time  immemorial.  I  think  it 
best  to  give  you  these  hints  about  my  worthy 
old  father,  to  prepare  you  for  any  eccentricities 
that  might  otherwise  appear  absurd. ' ' 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall 
of  a  park,  and  at  length  the  chaise  stopped  at 
the  gate.  It  was  in  a  heavy,  magnificent  old 
style,  of  iron  bars,  fancifully  wrought  at  top 
into  flourishes  and  flowers.  The  huge  square 
columns  that  supported  the  gate  were  sur 
mounted  by  the  family  crest.  Close  adjoining 
was  the  porter's  lodge,  sheltered  under  dark 
fir-trees,  and  almost  buried  in  shrubbery. 

The  post-boy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell, 
which  resounded  through  the  still  frosty  air, 
and  was  answered  by  the  distant  barking  of 
dogs,  with  which  the  mansion-house  seemed 
garrisoned.  An  old  woman  immediately  ap 
peared  at  the  gate.  As  the  moonlight  fell 
strongly  upon  her,  I  had  a  full  view  of  a  little 
primitive  dame,  dressed  very  much  in  the  an 
tique  taste,  with  a  neat  kerchief  and  stomacher, 
and  her  silver  hair  peeping  from  under  a  cap 
of  snowy  whiteness.  She  came  courtesying 


16 


forth,  with  many  expressions  of  simple  joy  at 
seeing  her  young  master.  Her  husband,  it 
seemed,  was  up  at  the  house  keeping  Christ 
mas  eve  in  the  servants'  hall  ;  they  could  not 
do  without  him,  as  he  was  the  best  hand  at  a 
song  and  story  in  the  household. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight 
and  walk  through  the  park  to  the  hall,  which 
was  at  no  great  distance,  while  the  chaise 
should  follow  on.  Our  road  wound  through 
a  noble  avenue  of  trees,  among  the  naked 
branches  of  which  the  moon  glittered,  as  she 
rolled  through  the  deep  vault  of  a  cloudless 
sky.  The  lawn  beyond  was  sheeted  with  a 
slight  covering  of  snow,  which  here  and  there 
sparkled  as  the  moonbeams  caught  a  frosty 
crystal  ;  and  at  a  distance  might  be  seen  a 
thin  transparent  vapor,  stealing  up  from  the 
low  grounds,  and  threatening  gradually  to 
shroud  the  landscape. 

My  companion  looked  around  him  with 
transport:  "How  often,"  said  he,  "have  I 
scampered  up  this  avenue,  on  returning  home 
on  school  vacations  !  How  often  have  I  played 
under  these  trees  when  a  boy  !  I  feel  a  degree 
of  filial  reverence  for  them,  as  we  look  up  to 
those  who  have  cherished  us  in  childhood. 
My  father  was  always  scrupulous  in  exacting 
our  holidays,  and  having  us  around  him  on 


; 


family  festivals.  He  used  to  direct  and  super 
intend  our  games  with  the  strictness  that  some 
parents  do  the  studies  of  their  children.  He 
was  very  particular  that  we  should  play  the 
old  English  games  according  to  their  original 
form  ;  and  consulted  old  books  for  precedent 
and  authority  for  every  *  merrie  disport '  ;  yet 
I  assure  you  there  never  was  pedantry  so  de 
lightful.  It  was  the  policy  of  the  good  old 
gentleman  to  make  his  children  feel  that  home 
was  the  happiest  place  in  the  world  ;  and  I 
value  this  delicious  home-feeling  as  one  of  the 
choicest  gifts  a  parent  could  bestow." 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop 
of  dogs  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  "  mongrel,  puppy, 
whelp,  and  hound,  and  curs  of  low  degree," 
that,  disturbed  by  the  ring  of  the  porter's  bell 
and  the  rattling  of  the  chaise,  came  bounding, 
open-mouthed,  across  the  lawn. 

—The  little  dogs  and  all, 

Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at 
me  ! " 

cried  Bracebridge,  laughing.  At  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  the  bark  was  changed  into  a  yelp  of 
delight,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  surrounded 
and  almost  overpowered  by  the  caresses  of  the 
faithful  animals. 

We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old 


18 


family  mansion,  partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow, 
and  partly  lit  up  by  the  cool  moonshine.  It 
was  an  irregular  building,  of  some  magnitude, 
and  seemed  to  be  of  the  architecture  of  differ 
ent  periods. — One  wing  was  evidently  very 
ancient,  with  heavy  stone-shafted  bow-win 
dows  jutting  out  and  overrun  with  ivy,  from 
among  the  foliage  of  which  the  small  diamond- 
shaped  panes  of  glass  glittered  with  the  moon 
beams.  The  rest  of  the  house  was  in  the 
French  taste  of  Charles  the  Second's  time, 
having  been  repaired  and  altered,  as  my  friend 
told  me,  by  one  of  his  ancestors,  who  returned 
with  that  monarch  at  the  Restoration.  The 
grounds  about  the  house  were  laid  out  in  the 
old  formal  manner  of  artificial  flower-beds, 
clipped  shrubberies,  raised  terraces,  and  heavy 
stone  balustrades,  ornamented  with  urns,  a 
leaden  statue  or  two,  and  a  jet  of  water.  The 
old  gentleman,  I  was  told,  was  extremely-  care 
ful  to  preserve  this  obsolete  finery  in  all  its 
original  state.  He  admired  this  fashion  in 
gardening  ;  it  had  an  air  of  magnificence,  was 
courtly  and  noble,  and  befitting  good  old  fam 
ily  style.  The  boasted  imitation  of  nature  in 
modern  gardening  had  sprung  up  with  mod 
ern  republican  notions,  but  did  not  suit  a 
monarchical  government ;  it  smacked  of  the 
levelling  system.  I  could  not  help  smiling  at 


Cbristmas  j£vc 


this  introduction  of  politics  into  gardening, 
though  I  expressed  some  apprehension  that 
I  should  find  the  old  gentleman  rather  intoler 
ant  in  his  creed.  Frank  assured  me,  however, 
that  it  was  almost  the  only  instance  in  which 
he  had  ever  heard  his  father  meddle  with 
politics ;  and  he  believed  that  he  had  got  this 
notion  from  a  member  of  parliament  who  once 
passed  a  few  weeks  with  him.  The  Squire  was 
glad  of  any  argument  to  defend  his  clipped 
yew-trees  and  formal  terraces,  which  had  been 
occasionally  attacked  by  modern  landscape 
gardeners. 

As  we  approached  the  house,  we  heard  the 
sound  of  music,  and  now  and  then  a  burst  of 
laughter,  from  one  end  of  the  building.  This, 
Bracebridge  said,  must  proceed  from  the  ser 
vants'  hall,  where  a  great  deal  of  revelry  was 
permitted,  and  even  encouraged  by  the  Squire, 
throughout  the  twelve  days  of  Christmas,  pro 
vided  everything  was  done  conformably  to 
ancient  usage.  Here  were  kept  up  the  old 
games  of  hoodman  blind,  shoe  the  wild  mare, 
hot  cockles,  steal  the  white  loaf,  bob  apple, 
and  snap-dragon  ;  the  Yule  clog  and  Christmas 
candle  were  regularly  burnt,  and  the  mistletoe, 
with  its  white  berries,  hung  up,  to  the  immi 
nent  peril  of  all  the  pretty  housemaids.* 

*  The  mistletoe  is  still  hung  up  in  farm-houses  and 


Cbe  Sfeetcb<fBoofc 


So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports 
that  we  had  to  ring  repeatedly  before  we  could 
make  ourselves  heard.  On  our  arrival  being 
announced,  the  Squire  came  out  to  receive  us, 
accompanied  by  his  two  other  sons  :  one  a 
young  officer  in  the  army,  home  on  leave  of 
absence,  the  other  an  Oxonian,  just  from  the 
university.  The  Squire  was  a  fine  healthy- 
looking  old  gentleman,  with  silver  hair  curling 
lightly  round  an  open  florid  countenance  ;  in 
which  the  physiognomist,  with  the  advantage, 
like  myself,  of  a  previous  hint  or  two,  might 
discover  a  singular  mixture  of  whim  and 
benevolence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affection 
ate  :  as  the  evening  was  far  advanced,  the 
Squire  would  not  permit  us  to  change  our 
travelling  dresses,  but  ushered  us  at  once  to 
the  company,  which  was  assembled  in  a  large 
old-fashioned  hall.  It  was  composed  of  differ 
ent  branches  of  a  numerous  family  connection, 
where  there  were  the  usual  proportion  of  old 
uncles  and  aunts,  comfortable  married  dames, 
superannuated  spinisters,  blooming  country 
cousins,  half-fledged  striplings,  and  bright-eyed 

kitchens  at  Christmas  ;  and  the  young  men  have  the 
privilege  of  kissing  the  girls  under  it,  plucking  each 
time  a  berry  from  the  bush.  When  the  berries  are  all 
plucked,  the  privilege  ceases. 


ffl 


f 


Cbrfstmas 


21 


boarding-school  hoydens.  They  were  vari 
ously  occupied  :  some  at  a  round  game  of 
cards  ;  others  conversing  around  the  fireplace  ; 
at  one  end  of  the  hall  was  a  group  of  the 
young  folks,  some  nearly  grown  up,  others  of 
a  more  tender  and  budding  age,  fully  engrossed 
by  a  merry  game  ;  and  a  profusion  of  wooden 
horses,  penny  trumpets,  and  tattered  dolls, 
about  the  floor,  showed  traces  of  a  troop  of 
little  fairy  beings  who,  having  frolicked 
through  a  happy  day,  had  been  carried  off  to 
slumber  through  a  peaceful  night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on 
between  young  Bracebridge  and  his  relatives, 
I  had  time  to  scan  the  apartment.  I  have 
called  it  a  hall,  for  so  it  had  certainly  been  in 
old  times,  and  the  Squire  had  evidently  endea 
vored  to  restore  it  to  something  of  its  primitive 
state.  Over  the  heavy  projecting  fireplace  was 
suspended  a  picture  of  a  warrior  in  armor, 
standing  by  a  white  horse,  and  on  the  opposite 
wall  hung  a  helmet,  buckler,  and  lance.  At 
one  end  an  enormous  pair  of  antlers  were 
inserted  in  the  wall,  the  branches  serving  as 
hooks  on  which  to  suspend  hats,  whips,  and 
spurs ;  and  in  the  corners  of  the  apartment 
were  fowling-pieces,  fishing-rods,  and  other 
sporting  implements.  The  furniture  was  of 
the  cumbrous  workmanship  of  former  days, 


though  some  articles  of  modern  convenience 
had  been  added,  and  the  oaken  floor  had  been 
carpeted  ;  so  that  the  whole  presented  an  odd 
mixture  of  parlor  and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide 
overwhelming  fireplace,  to  make  way  for  a  fire 
of  wood,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  an  enor 
mous  log  glowing  and  blazing,  and  sending 
forth  a  vast  volume  of  light  and  heat  :  this  I 
understood  was  the  Yule  clog,  which  the  Squire 
was  particular  in  having  brought  in  and  illu 
mined  on  a  Christmas  eve,  according  to  ancient 
custom.* 

*  The  Yule  clog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes 
the  root  of  a  tree,  brought  into  the  house  with  great 
ceremony,  on  Christmas  eve,  laid  in  the  fireplace,  and 
lighted  with  the  brand  of  last  year's  clog.  While  it 
lasted,  there  was  great  drinking,  singing,  and  telling 
of  tales.  Sometimes  it  was  accompanied  by  Christ 
mas  candles ;  but  in  the  cottages  the  only  light  was 
from  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  great  wood-fire.  The 
Yule  clog  was  to  burn  all  night ;  if  it  went  out,  it 
was  considered  a  sign  of  ill-luck. 

Herrick  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  songs : 
"  Come,  bring  with  a  noise, 
My  merrie,  merrie  boyes, 
The  Christmas  log  to  the  firing  ; 
While  my  good  dame,  she 
Bids  ye  all  be  free, 
And  drink  to  your  hearts  desiring." 
The  Yule  clog  is  still  burnt  in  many  farm-houses 


Cbrtetmas  Ere 


It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  Squire 
seated  in  his  hereditary  elbow-chair,  by  the 
hospitable  fireside  of  his  ancestors,  and  looking 
around  him  like  the  sun  of  a  system,  beaming 
warmth  and  gladness  to  every  heart.  Even  the 
very  dog  that  lay  stretched  at  his  feet,  as  he 
lazily  shifted  his  position  and  yawned,  would 
look  fondly  up  in  his  master's  face,  wag  his 
tail  against  the  floor,  and  stretch  himself  again 
to  sleep,  confident  of  kindness  and  protection. 
There  is  an  emanation  from  the  heart  in  genuine 
hospitality  which  cannot  be  described,  but  is 
immediately  felt,  and  puts  the  stranger  at  once 
at  his  ease.  I  had  not  been  seated  many 
minutes  by  the  comfortable  hearth  of  the 
worthy  old  cavalier,  before  I  found  myself  as 
much  at  home  as  if  I  had  been  one  of  the 
family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our 
arrival.  It  was  served  up  in  a  spacious  oaken 
chamber,  the  panels  of  which  shone  with  wax, 
and  around  which  were  several  family  portraits 

and  kitchens  in  England,  particularly  in  the  north, 
and  there  are  several  superstitions  connected  with  it 
among  the  peasantry.  If  a  squinting  person  come  to 
the  house  while  it  is  burning,  or  a  person  barefooted, 
it  is  considered  an  ill  omen.  The  brand  remaining 
from  the  Yule  clog  is  carefully  put  away  to  light  the 
next  year's  Christmas  fire. 


24 


Sfcetcb=;Boofc 


decorated  with  holly  and  ivy.  Besides  the 
accustomed  lights,  two  great  wax  tapers,  called 
Christmas  candles,  wreathed  with  greens,  were 
placed  on  a  highly  polished  beaufet  among  the 
family  plate.  The  table  was  abundantly  spread 
with  substantial  fare  ;  but  the  Squire  made  his 
supper  of  frumenty,  a  dish  made  of  wheat- 
cakes  boiled  in  milk,  with  rich  spices,  being  a 
standing  dish  in  old  times  for  Christmas  eve. 

I  was  happy  to  find  my  old  friend,  minced- 
pie,  in  the  retinue  of  the  feast ;  and  finding 
him  to  be  perfectly  orthodox,  and  that  I  need 
not  be  ashamed  of  my  predilection,  I  greeted 
him  with  all  the  warmth  wherewith  we  usually 
greet  an  old  and  very  genteel  acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  pro 
moted  by  the  humors  of  an  eccentric  person 
age  whom  Mr.  Bracebridge  always  addressed 
with  the  quaint  appellation  of  Master  Simon. 
He  was  a  tight  brisk  little  man,  with  the  air 
of  an  arrant  old  bachelor.  His  nose  was 
shaped  like  the  bill  of  a  parrot ;  his  face 
slightly  pitted  with  the  small- pox,  with  a  dry 
perpetual  bloom  on  it,  like  a  frostbitten  leaf  in 
autumn.  He  had  an  eye  of  great  quickness 
and  vivacity,  with  a  drollery  and  lurking  wag 
gery  of  expression  that  was  irresistible.  He 
was  evidently  the  wit  of  the  family,  dealing 
very  much  in  sly  jokes  and  innuendoes  with 


Cbri»tma$ 


the  ladies,  and  making  infinite  merriment  by 
harping  upon  old  themes  ;  which,  unfortu 
nately,  my  ignorance  of  the  family  chronicles 
did  not  permit  me  to  enjoy.  It  seemed  to  be 
his  great  delight  during  supper  to  keep  a 
young  girl  next  him  in  a  continual  agony  of 
stifled  laughter,  in  spite  of  her  awe  of  the 
reproving  looks  of  her  mother,  who  sat  oppo 
site.  Indeed,  he  was  the  idol  of  the  younger 
part  of  the  company,  who  laughed  at  every 
thing  he  said  or  did,  and  at  every  turn  of  his 
countenance ;  I  could  not  wonder  at  it ;  for  he 
must  have  been  a  miracle  of  accomplishments 
in  their  eyes.  He  couldt  imitate  Punch  and 
Judy  ;  make  an  old  woman  of  his  hand,  with 
the  assistance  of  a  burnt  cork  and  pocket- 
handkerchief  ;  and  cut  an  orange  into  such  a 
ludicrous  caricature,  that  the  young  folks  were 
ready  to  die  with  laughing. 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank 
Bracebridge.  He  was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a 
small  independent  income,  which,  by  careful 
management,  was  sufficient  for  all  his  wants. 
He  revolved  through  the  family  system  like  a 
vagrant  comet  in  its  orbit  ;  sometimes  visiting 
one  branch,  and  sometimes  another  quite  re 
mote  ;  as  is  often  the  case  with  gentlemen  of 
extensive  connections  and  small  fortunes  in 
England.  He  had  a  chirping  buoyant  disposi- 


tion,  always  enjoying  the  present  moment ; 
and  his  frequent  change  of  scene  and  company 
prevented  his  acquiring  those  rusty  unaccom 
modating  habits,  with  which  old  bachelors  are 
so  uncharitably  charged.  He  was  a  complete 
family  chronicle,  being  versed  in  the  gene 
alogy,  history,  and  intermarriages  of  the  whole 
house  of  Bracebridge,  which  made  him  a  great 
favorite  with  the  old  folks  ;  he  was  a  beau  of 
all  the  elder  ladies  and  superannuated  spinsters, 
among  whom  he  was  habitually  considered 
rather  a  young  fellow,  and  he  was  master  of  the 
revels  among  the  children  ;  so  that  there  was 
not  a  more  popular  being  in  the  sphere  in 
which  he  moved  than  Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge. 
Of  late  years,  he  had  resided  almost  entirely 
with  the  Squire,  to  whom  he  had  become  a 
factotum,  and  whom  he  particularly  delighted 
by  jumping  with  his  humor  in  respect  to  old 
times,  and  by  having  a  scrap  of  an  old  song  to 
suit  every  occasion.  We  had  presently  a  spec 
imen  of  his  last- mentioned  talent ;  for  no  sooner 
was  supper  removed,  and  spiced  wines  and 
other  beverages  peculiar  to  the  season  intro 
duced,  than  Master  Simon  was  called  on  for  a 
good  old  Christmas  song.  He  bethought  him 
self  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  sparkle  of 
the  eye,  and  a  voice  that  was  by  no  means 
bad,  excepting  that  it  ran  occasionally  into  a 

i^^ 


,  >t 


Christmas  }£vc 


falsetto,  like  the  notes  of  a  split  reed,  he  quav 
ered  forth  a  quaint  old  ditty. 

"  Now  Christmas  is  come, 

Let  us  beat  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together, 

And  when  they  appear, 

Ivet  us  make  them  such  cheer, 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,"  etc. 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety, 
and  an  old  harper  was  summoned  from  the 
servants'  hall,  where  he  had  been  strumming 
all  the  evening,  and  to  all  appearance  comfort 
ing  himself  with  some  of  the  Squire's  home 
brewed.  He  was  a  kind  of  hanger-on,  I  was 
told,  of  the  establishment,  and,  though  osten 
sibly  a  resident  of  the  village,  was  oftener  to 
be  found  in  the  Squire's  kitchen  than  his  own 
home,  the  old  gentleman  being  fond  of  the 
sound  of  "  harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper, 
was  a  merry  one ;  some  of  the  older  folks 
joined  in  it,  and  the  Squire  himself  figured 
down  several  couple  with  a  partner,  with 
whom  he  affirmed  he  had  danced  at  every 
Christmas  for  nearly  half  a  century.  Master 
Simon,  who  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  connecting 
link  between  the  old  times  and  the  new,  and 
to  be  withal  a  little  antiquated  in  the  taste  of 
his  accomplishments,  evidently  piqued  himself 


\ 


1 


28 


on  his  dancing,  and  was  endeavoring  to  gain 
credit  by  the  heel  and  toe,  rigadoon,  and  other 
graces  of  the  ancient  school  ;  but  he  had  un 
luckily  assorted  himself  with  a  little  romping 
girl  from  boarding-school,  who,  by  her  wild 
vivacity,  kept  him  continually  on  the  stretch, 
and  defeated  all  his  sober  attempts  at  elegance  : 
— such  are  the  ill-assorted  matches  to  which 
antique  gentlemen  are  unfortunately  prone  ! 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had 
led  out  one  of  his  maiden  aunts,  on  whom  the 
rogue  played  a  thousand  little  knaveries  with 
impunity  :  he  was  full  of  practical  jokes,  and 
his  delight  was  to  tease  his  aunts  and  cousins  ; 
yet,  like  all  madcap  youngsters,  he  was  a  uni 
versal  favorite  among  the  women.  The  most 
interesting  couple  in  the  dance  was  the  young 
officer  and  a  ward  of  the  Squire's,  a  beautiful 
blushing  girl  of  seventeen.  From  several  sly 
glances  which  I  had  noticed  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  I  suspected  there  was  a  little 
kindness  growing  up  between  them,  and,  in 
deed,  the  young  soldier  was  just  the  hero  to 
captivate  a  romantic  girl.  He  was  tall,  slen 
der,  and  handsome,  and,  like  most  young  Brit 
ish  officers  of  late  years,  had  picked  up  various 
small  accomplishments  on  the  continent ; — he 
could  talk  French  and  Italian — draw  land 
scapes — sing  very  tolerably — dance  divinely  ; 


Obrtatmas 


but,  above  all,  lie  had  been  wounded  at  Water 
loo  : — what  girl  of  seventeen,  well  read  in  poe 
try  and  romance,  could  resist  such  a  mirror  of 
chivalry  and  perfection  ! 

The  moment  the  dance  was  over,  he  caught 
up  a  guitar,  and,  lolling  against  the  old  marble 
fireplace,  in  an  attitude  which  I  am  half  inclined 
to  suspect  was  studied,  began  the  little  French 
air  of  the  Troubadour.  The  Squire,  however, 
exclaimed  against  having  anything  on  Christ 
mas  eve  but  good  old  English  ;  upon  which  the 
young  minstrel,  casting  up  his  eye  for  a  moment, 
as  if  in  an  effort  of  memory,  struck  into  another 
strain,  and,  with  a  charming  air  of  gallantry, 
gave  Herrick's  "  Night-Piece  to  Julia." 

"  Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 
And  the  elves  also, 
Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

"  No  Will-o'-the-Wisp  mislight  thee  ; 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worm  bite  thee  ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thee. 

"  Then  let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber  ; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber, 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 


"  Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me, 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet, 
My  soul  I  '11  pour  into  thee." 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been 
intended  in  compliment  to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so 
I  found  his  partner  was  called  ;  she,  however, 
was  certainly  unconscious  of  any  such  applica 
tion,  for  she  never  looked  at  the  singer,  but 
kept  her  eyes  cast  upon  the  floor.  Her  face 
was  suffused,  it  is  true,  with  a  beautiful  blush, 
and  there  was  a  gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom, 
but  all  that  was  doubtless  caused  by  the  exer 
cise  of  the  dance  ;  indeed,  so  great  was  her 
indifference,  that  she  amused  herself  with 
plucking  to  pieces  a  choice  bouquet  of  hot 
house  flowers,  and  by  the  time  the  song  was  con 
cluded  the  nosegay  lay  in  ruins  on  the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  up  for  the  night  with 
the  kind-hearted  old  custom  of  shaking  hands. 
As  I  passed  through  the  hall,  on  my  way  to 
my  chamber,  the  dying  embers  of  the  Yule 
clog  still  sent  forth  a  dusky  glow,  and  had  it 
not  been  the  season  when  "  no  spirit  dares  stir 
abroad,"  I  should  have  been  half  tempted  to 
steal  from  my  room  at  midnight,  and  peep 
whether  the  fairies  might  not  be  at  their  revels 
about  the  hearth. 


Christmas  Bvc 


My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  man 
sion,  the  ponderous  furniture  of  which  might 
have  been  fabricated  in  the  days  of  the  giants. 
The  room  was  panelled  with  cornices  of  heavy 
carved  work,  in  which  flowers  and  grotesque 
faces  were  strangely  intermingled  ;  and  a  row 
of  black-looking  portraits  stared  mournfully 
at  me  from  the  walls.  The  bed  was  of  rich, 
though  faded  damask,  wTith  a  lofty  tester,  and 
stood  in  a  niche  opposite  a  bow-window.  I 
had  scarcely  got  into  bed  when  a  strain  of 
music  seemed  to  break  forth  in  the  air  just 
below  the  window.  I  listened,  and  found  it 
proceeded  from  a  band,  which  I  concluded  to 
be  the  waits  from  some  neighboring  village. 
They  went  round  the  house,  playing  under 
the  windows.  I  drew  aside  the  curtains  to  hear 
them  more  distinctly.  The  moonbeams  fell 
through  the  upper  part  of  the  casement,  par 
tially  lighting  up  the  antiquated  apartment. 
The  sounds,  as  they  receded,  became  more  soft 
and  aerial,  and  seemed  to  accord  with  the  quiet 
and  moonlight.  I  listened  and  listened, — they 
became  more  and  more  tender  and  remote,  and, 
as  they  gradually  died  away,  my  head  sunk 


Gbristmas 


Dark  and  dull  night,  flie  hence  away, 
And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  turn'd  to  May. 

Why  does  the  chilling-  winter's  morne 
Smile  like  a  field  beset  with  corn  ? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  meade  new-shorne, 
Thus  on  the  sudden  ?  —  Come  and  pee 
The  cause  why  things  thus  fragrant  be. 

HERRICK. 

HEN  I  woke  the  next 
morning,  it  seemed  as 
if  all  the  events  of  the 
preceding  evening  had 
been  a  dream,  and 
nothing  but  the  iden 
tity  of  the  ancient 
chamber  convinced 
me  of  their  reality. 
While  I  lay  musing 

o'n  my  pillow,  I  heard  the  sound  of  little  feet 
pattering  outside  of  the  door,  and  a  whisper 
ing  consultation.  Presently  a  choir  of  small 
voices  chanted  forth  an  old  Christmas  carol,  the 
burden  of  which  was — 


r 


Cbristmas  £>av> 


Rejoice,  our  Saviour  he  was  born 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning." 


I  rose  softly,  slipt  on  my  clothes,  opened  the 
door  suddenly,  and  beheld  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  little  fairy  groups  that  a  painter 
could  imagine.  It  consisted  of  a  boy  and  two 
girls,  the  eldest  not  more  than  six,  and  lovely 
as  seraphs.  They  were  going  the  rounds  of 
the  house,  and  singing  at  every  chamber-door  ; 
but  my  sudden  appearance  frightened  them 
into  mute  bashfulness.  They  remained  for  a 
moment  playing  on  their  lips  with  their  fingers, 
and  now  and  then  stealing  a  shy  glance  from 
under  their  eyebrows,  until,  as  if  by  one  im 
pulse,  they  scampered  away,  and  as  they  turned 
an  angle  of  the  gallery,  I  heard  them  laughing 
in  triumph  at  their  escape. 

Everything  conspired  to  produce  kind  and 
happy  feelings  in  this  stronghold  of  old- 
fashioned  hospitality.  The  window  of  my 
chamber  looked  out  upon  what  in  summer 
would  have  been  a  beautiful  landscape.  There 
was  a  sloping  lawn,  a  fine  stream  winding  at 
the  foot  of  it,  and  a  tract  of  park  beyond,  with 
noble  clumps  of  trees,  and  herds  of  deer.  At 
a  distance  was  a  neat  hamlet,  with  the  smoke 
from  the  cottage-chimneys  hanging  over  it ; 
and  a  church  with  its  dark  spire  in  strong  re- 


VOL.  II.— 3 


-    ^  s 


34 


Cbe  SfcetctKJBoofc 


1 


lief  against  the  clear,  cold  sky.  The  house 
was  surrounded  with  evergreens,  according 
to  the  English  custom,  which  would  have 
given  almost  an  appearance  of  summer ;  but 
the  morning  was  extremely  frosty  ;  the  light 
vapor  of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  pre 
cipitated  by  the  cold,  and  covered  all  the  trees 
and  every  blade  of  grass  with  its  fine  crystalli 
zations.  The  rays  of  a  bright  morning  sun 
had  a  dazzling  effect  among  the  glittering 
foliage.  A  robin,  perched  upon  the  top  of  a 
mountain-ash  that  hung  its  clusters  of  red 
berries  just  before  my  window,  was  basking 
himself  in  the  sunshine,  and  piping  a  few 
querulous  notes ;  and  a  peacock  was  display 
ing  all  the  glories  of  his  train,  and  strutting 
with  the  pride  and  gravity  of  a  Spanish  gran 
dee,  on  the  terrace  walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  ser 
vant  appeared  to  invite  me  to  family  prayers. 
He  showed  me  the  way  to  a  small  chapel  in 
the  old  wing  of  the  house,  where  I  found  the 
principal  part  of  the  family  already  assembled 
in  a  kind  of  gallery,  furnished  with  cushions, 
hassocks,  and  large  prayer-books  ;  the  servants 
were  seated  on  benches  below.  The  old  gentle 
man  read  prayers  from  a  desk  in  front  of  the 
gallery,  and  Master  Simon  acted  as  clerk,  and 
made  the  responses ;  and  I  must  do  him  the 


*0neofh  ttcautifii!  Li  ill*'  l^airy 

(jrTOUpS? 


Cbristmas 


B 


justice  to  say  that  he  acquitted  himself  with 
great  gravity  and  decorum. 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas 
carol,  which  Mr.  Bracebridge  himself  had  con 
structed  from  a  poem  of  his  favorite  author, 
Herrick  ;  and  it  had  been  adapted  to  an  old 
church-melody  by  Master  Simon.  As  there 
were  several  good  voices  among  the  household, 
the  effect  was  extremely  pleasing  ;  but  I  was 
particularly  gratified  by  the  exaltation  of  heart, 
and  sudden  sally  of  grateful  feeling,  with 
which  the  worthy  Squire  delivered  one  stanza  ; 
his  eye  glistening,  and  his  voice  rambling  out 
of  all  the  bounds  of  time  and  tune — 

'  'T  is  thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth, 
And  givest  me  Wassaile  bowles  to  drink 

Spiced  to  the  brink  ; 
Lord,  't  is  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soiles  my  land  ; 
And  giv'st  me  for  my  bushell  sowne, 

Twice  ten  for  one." 


I  afterwards  understood  that  early  morning 
service  was  read  on  every  Sunday  and  saints' 
day  throughout  the  year,  either  by  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge  or  by  some  member  of  the  family.  It 
was  once  almost  universally  the  case  at  the 
seats  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  England, 


SfcetctKTBoofc 


and  it  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  the  custom 
is  falling  into  neglect  ;  for  the  dullest  observer 
must  be  sensible  of  the  order  and  serenity 
prevalent  in  those  households,  where  the 
occasional  exercise  of  a  beautiful  form  of  wor 
ship  in  the  morning  gives,  as  it  were,  the  key 
note  to  every  temper  for  the  day,  and  attunes 
every  spirit  to  harmony. 

Our  breakfast  consisted  of  what  the  Squire 
denominated  true  old  English  fare.  He  in 
dulged  in  some  bitter  lamentations  over  modern 
breakfasts  of  tea  and  toast,  which  he  censured 
as  among  the  causes  of  modern  effeminacy  and 
weak  nerves,  and  the  decline  of  old  Knglish 
heartiness  ;  and  though  he  admitted  them  to 
his  table  to  suit  the  palates  of  his  guests,  yet 
there  was  a  brave  display  of  cold  meats,  wine, 
and  ale,  on  the  sideboard. 

After  breakfast  I  walked  about  the  grounds 
with  Frank  Bracebridge  and  Master  Simon,  or, 
Mr.  Simon,  .as  he  was  called  by  everybody  but 
the  Squire.  We  were  escorted  by  a  number  of 
gentlemanlike  dogs,  that  seemed  loungers  about 
the  establishment,  from  the  frisking  spaniel  to 
the  steady  old  stag-hound,  —  the  last  of  which 
was  of  a  race  that  had  been  in  the  family  time 
out  of  mind  ;  they  were  all  obedient  to  a  dog- 
whistle  which  hung  to  Master  Simon's  button 
hole,  and  in  the  midst  of  their  gambols  would 


Cbristmas  E)av> 


glance  an  eye  occasionally  upon  a  small  switch 
he  carried  in  his  hand. 

The  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable 
look  in  the  yellow  sunshine  than  by  pale  moon 
light,  and  I  could  not  but  feel  the  force  of  the 
Squire's  idea,  that  the  formal  terraces,  heavily 
moulded  balustrades,  and  clipped  yew-trees 
carried  with  them  an  air  of  proud  aristocracy. 
There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual  number  of 
peacocks  about  the  place,  and  I  was  making 
some  remarks  upon  what  I  termed  a  flock  of 
them,  that  were  basking  under  a  sunny  wall, 
when  I  was  gently  corrected  in  my  phraseology 
by  Master  Simon,  who  told  me  that,  according 
to  the  most  ancient  and  approved  treatise  on 
hunting,  I  must  say  a  muster  of  peacocks. 
"In  the  same  way,"  added  he,  with  a  slight 
air  of  pedantry,  "  we  say  a  flight  of  doves  or 
swallows,  a  bevy  of  quails,  a  herd  of  deer,  of 
wrens,  or  cranes,  a  skulk  of  foxes,  or  a  building 
of  rooks."  He  went  on  to  inform  me  that, 
according  to  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert,  we  ought 
to  ascribe  to  this  bird  "both  understanding 
and  glory  ;  for,  being  praised,  he  will  presently 
set  up  his  tail,  chiefly  against  the  sun,  to  the 
intent  you  may  the  better  behold  the  beauty 
thereof.  But  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf,  when  his 
tail  falleth,  he  will  mourn  and  hide  himself  in 
corners,  till  his  tail  come  again  as  it  was." 


Sfcetcb^JiSoofe 


I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of 
small  erudition  on  so  whimsical  a  subject ;  but 
I  found  that  the  peacocks  were  birds  of  some 
consequence  at  the  hall ;  for  Frank  Bracebridge 
informed  me  that  they  were  great  favorites 
with  his  father,  who  was  extremely  careful  to 
keep  up  the  breed ;  partly  because  they  be 
longed  to  chivalry,  and  were  in  great  request 
at  the  stately  banquets  of  the  olden  time,  and 
partly  because  they  had  a  pomp  and  magnifi 
cence  about  them,  highly  becoming  an  old 
family  mansion.  Nothing,  he  was  accustomed 
to  say,  had  an  air  of  greater  state  and  dignity 
than  a  peacock  perched  upon  an  antique  stone 
balustrade. 

Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having 
an  appointment  at  the  parish  church  with  the 
village  choristers,  who  were  to  perform  some 
music  of  his  selection.  There  was  something 
extremely  agreeable  in  the  cheerful  flow  of 
animal  spirits  of  the  little  man  ;  and  I  confess 
I  had  been  somewhat  surprised  at  his  apt  quo 
tations  from  authors  who  certainly  were  not  in 
the  range  of  every-day  reading.  I  mentioned 
this  last  circumstance  to  Frank  Bracebridge, 
who  told  me  with  a  smile  that  Master  Simon's 
whole  stock  of  erudition  was  confined  to  some 
half  a  dozen  old  authors,  which  the  Squire  had 
put  into  his  hands,  and  which  he  read  over 


Gbrtetmas  H)av> 


and  over,  whenever  he  had  a  studious  fit  ;  as 
he  sometimes  had  on  a  rainy  day,  or  a  long 
winter  evening.  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert's 
Book  of  Husbandry  ;  Markham's  Country  Con 
tentments  ;  the  Tretyse  of  Hunting,  by  Sir 
Thomas  Cockayne,  Knight  ;  Izaac  Walton's 
Angler,  and  two  or  three  more  such  ancient 
worthies  of  the  pen,  were  his  standard  authori 
ties  ;  and,  like  all  men  who  know  but  a  few 
books,  he  looked  up  to  them  with  a  kind  of 
idolatry,  and  quoted  them  on  all  occasions. 
As  to  his  songs,  they  were  chiefly  picked  out 
of  old  books  in  the  Squire's  library,  and  adapted 
to  tunes  that  were  popular  among  the  choice 
spirits  of  the  last  century.  His  practical  appli 
cation  of  scraps  of  literature,  however,  had 
caused  him  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  prodigy  of 
book-knowledge  by  all  the  grooms,  huntsmen, 
and  small  sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood. 

While  we  were  talking  we  heard  the  distant 
tolling  of  the  village-bell,  and  I  was  told  that 
the  Squire  was  a  little  particular  in  having  his 
household  at  church  on  a  Christmas  morning, 
considering  it  a  day  of  pouring  out  of  thanks 
and  rejoicing  ;  for,  as  old  Tusser  observed, 


At  Christmas  be  merry,  and  thankful  withal, 
And  feast  thy  poor  neighbors,  the   great  with  the 
small." 


"  If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church,"  Said 
Frank  Bracebridge.  "  I  can  promise  you  a 
specimen  of  my  cousin  Simon's  musical 
achievements.  As  the  church  is  destitute  of 
an  organ,  he  has  formed  a  band  from  the 
village  amateurs,  and  established  a  musical 
club  for  their  improvement ;  he  has  also  sorted 
a  choir,  as  he  sorted  my  father's  pack  of 
hounds,  according  to  the  directions  of  Jervaise 
Markham,  in  his  Country  Contentments  ; 
for  the  bass  he  has  sought  out  all  the  '  deep, 
solemn  mouths, '  and  for  the  tenor  the  '  loud- 
ringing  mouths,'  among  the  country  bump 
kins;  and  for  'sweet  mouths,'  he  has  culled 
with  curious  taste  among  the  prettiest  lasses 
in  the  neighborhood  ;  though  these  last,  he 
affirms,  are  the  most  difficult  to  keep  in  tune  ; 
your  pretty  female  singer  being  exceedingly 
wayward  and  capricious,  and  very  liable  to 
accident." 

As  the  morning,  though  frosty,  was  re 
markably  fine  and  clear,  the  most  of  the  fam 
ily  walked  to  the  church,  which  was  a  very 
old  building  of  gray-stone,  and  stood  near  a 
village,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  park  gate. 
Adjoining  it  was  a  low  snug  parsonage,  which 
seemed  coeval  with  the  church.  The  front  of 
it  was  perfectly  matted  with  a  yew-tree,  that 
had  been  trained  against  its  walls,  through  the 


Cbrtetmas  Bap 


dense  foliage  of  which,  apertures  had  been 
formed  to  admit  light  into  the  small  antique 
lattices.  As  we  passed  this  sheltered  nest,  the 
parson  issued  forth  and  preceded  us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek,  well-con 
ditioned  pastor,  such  as  is  often  found  in  a 
snug  living  in  the  vicinity  of  a  rich  patron's 
table  ;  but  I  was  disappointed.  The  parson 
was  a  little,  meagre,  black-looking  man,  with 
a  grizzled  wig  that  was  too  wide,  and  stood 
off  from  each  ear  ;  so  that  his  head  seemed  to 
have  shrunk  away  within  it,  like  a  dried  filbert 
in  its  shell.  He  wore  a  rusty  coat,  with  great 
skirts,  and  pockets  that  would  have  held  the 
church  Bible  and  prayer-book  :  and  his  small 
legs  seemed  still  smaller,  from  being  planted 
in  large  shoes,  decorated  with  enormous 
buckles. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge,  that 
the  parson  had  been  a  chum  of  his  father's  at 
Oxford,  and  had  received  this  living  shortly 
after  the  latter  had  come  to  his  estate.  He 
was  a  complete  black-letter  hunter,  and  would 
scarcely  read  a  work  printed  in  the  Roman 
character.  The  editions  of  Caxton  and  Wyn- 
kin  de  Worde  were  his  delight  ;  and  he  was 
indefatigable  in  his  researches  after  such  old 
English  wrriters  as  have  fallen  into  oblivion 
from  their  worthlessness.  In  deference,  per- 


fe 


haps,  to  the  notions  of  Mr.  Bracebridge,  he 
had  made  diligent  investigations  into  the  fes 
tive  rites  and  holiday  customs  of  former  times  ; 
and  had  been  as  zealous  in  the  inquiry  as  if  he 
had  been  a  boon  companion  ;  but  it  was  merely 
with  that  plodding  spirit  with  which  men  of 
adust  temperament  follow  up  any  track  of 
study,  merely  because  it  is  denominated  learn 
ing  ;  indifferent  to  its  intrinsic  nature,  whether 
it  be  the  illustration  of  the  wisdom,  or  of  the 
ribaldry  and  obscenity  of  antiquity.  He  had 
pored  over  these  old  volumes  so  intensely,  that 
they  seemed  to  have  been  reflected  in  his  coun 
tenance  ;  which,  if  the  face  be  indeed  an  index 
of  the  mind,  might  be  compared  to  a  title- 
page  of  black-letter. 

On  reaching  the  church-porch,  we  found  the 
parson  rebuking  the  gray-headed  sexton  for 
having  used  mistletoe  among  the  greens  with 
which  the  church  was  decorated.  It  wras,  he 
observed,  an  unholy  plant,  profaned  by  having 
been  used  by  the  Druids  in  their  mystic  cere 
monies  ;  and  though  it  might  be  innocently 
employed  in  the  festive  ornamenting  of  halls 
and  kitchens,  yet  it  had  been  deemed  by  the 
Fathers  of  the  Church  as  unhallowed,  and 
totally  unfit  for  sacred  purposes.  So  tenacious 
was  he  on  this  point,  that  the  poor  sexton  was 
obliged  to  strip  down  a  great  part  of  the  hum- 


Cbrtstmas  Dag 


ble  trophies  of  his  taste,  before  the  parson 
would  consent  to  enter  upon  the  service  of  the 
day. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  venerable  but 
simple  ;  on  the  walls  were  several  mural  monu 
ments  of  the  Bracebridges,  and  just  beside  the 
altar  was  a  tomb  of  ancient  workmanship,  on 
which  lay  the  effigy  of  a  warrior  in  armor,  with 
his  legs  crossed,  a  sign  of  his  having  been  a 
Crusader.  I  was  told  it  was  one  of  the  family 
who  had  signalized  himself  in  the  Holy  Land, 
and  the  same  whose  picture  hung  over  the  fire 
place  in  the  hall. 

During  service,  Master  Simon  stood  up  in 
the  pew,  and  repeated  the  responses  very  audi 
bly  ;  evincing  that  kind  of  ceremonious  devo 
tion  punctually  observed  by  a  gentleman  of  the 
old  school,  and  a  man  of  old  family  connections. 
I  observed,  too,  that  he  turned  over  the  leaves 
of  a  folio  prayer-book  with  something  of  a 
flourish  ;  possibly  to  show  off  an  enormous 
seal-ring  which  enriched  one  of  his  fingers, 
and  which  had  the  look  of  a  family  relic.  But 
he  was  evidently  most  solicitous  about  the 
musical  part  of  the  service,  keeping  his  eye 
fixed  intently  on  the  choir,  and  beating  time 
with  much  gesticulation  and  emphasis. 

The  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and 
presented  a  most  whimsical  grouping  of  heads, 


piled  one  above  the  other,  among  which  I  par 
ticularly  noticed  that  of  the  village  tailor,  a 
pale  fellow  with  a  retreating  forehead  and  chin, 
who  played  on  the  clarionet,  and  seemed  to 
have  blown  his  face  to  a  point  ;  and  there  was 
another,  a  short  pursy  man,  stooping  and 
laboring  at  a  bass-viol,  so  as  to  show  nothing 
but  the  top  of  a  round  bald  head,  like  the  egg 
of  an  ostrich.  There  were  two  or  three  pretty 
faces  among  the  female  singers,  to  which  the 
keen  air  of  a  frosty  morning  had  given  a  bright 
rosy  tint  ;  but  the  gentlemen  choristers  had 
evidently  been  chosen,  like  old  Cremona  fid 
dles,  more  for  tone  than  looks  ;  and  as  several 
had  to  sing  from  the  same  book,  there  were 
clusterings  of  odd  physiognomies,  not  unlike 
those  groups  of  cherubs  we  sometimes  see  on 
country  tombstones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed 
tolerably  well,  the  vocal  parts  generally  lagging 
a  little  behind  the  instrumental,  and  some  loi 
tering  fiddler  now  and  then  making  up  for  lost 
time  by  travelling  over  a  passage  with  prodig 
ious  celerity,  and  clearing  more  bars  than  the 
keenest  fox-hunter  to  be  in  at  the  death.  But 
the  great  trial  was  an  anthem  that  had  been 
prepared  and  arranged  by  Master  Simon,  and 
on  which  he  had  founded  great  expectation. 
Unluckily  there  was  a  blunder  at  the  very  out- 


Cbnstmas  Dap 


set ;  the  musicians  became  flurried  ;  Ma>kr 
Simon  was  in  a  fever  ;  everything  went  on 
lamely  and  irregularly  until  they  came  to  a 
chorus  beginning,  "  Now  let  us  sing  with  one 
accord,"  which  seemed  to  be  a  signal  for  part 
ing  company  :  all  became  discord  and  confu 
sion  ;  each  shifted  for  himself,  and  got  to  the 
end  as  well,  or,  rather,  as  soon  as  he  could, 
excepting  one  old  chorister  in  a  pair  of  horn 
spectacles,  bestriding  and  pinching  a  long 
sonorous  nose  ;  who  happened  to  stand  a  little 
apart,  and,  being  wrapped  up  in  his  own 
melody,  kept  on  a  quavering  course,  wriggling 
his  head,  ogling  his  book,  and  winding  all  up 
by  a  nasal  solo  of  at  least  three  bars'  duration. 
The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on 
the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  Christmas,  and  the 
propriety  of  observing  it  not  merely  as  a  day  of 
thanksgiving,  but  of  rejoicing  ;  supporting  the 
correctness  of  his  opinions  by  the  earliest  usages 
of  the  church,  and  enforcing  them  by  the 
authorities  of  Theophilus  of  Cesarea,  St.  Cyp 
rian,  St.  Chrysostom,  St.  Augustine,  and  a 
cloud  more  of  saints  and  fathers,  from  whom 
he  made  copious  quotations.  I  was  a  little  at 
a  loss  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  such  a  mighty 
array  of  forces  to  maintain  a  point  which  no 
one  present  seemed  inclined  to  dispute  ;  but  I 
soon  found  that  the  good  man  had  a  legion  of 


ideal  adversaries  to  contend  with  ;  having,  in 
the  course  of  his  researches  on  the  subject  of 
Christmas,  got  completely  embroiled  in  the 
sectarian  controversies  of  the  Revolution,  when 
the  Puritans  made  such  a  fierce  assault  upon 
the  ceremonies  of  the  church,  and  poor  old 
Christmas  was  driven  out  of  the  land  by  procla 
mation  of  Parliament.*  The  worthy  parson 
lived  but  with  times  past,  and  knew  but  little 
of  the  present. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  re 
tirement  of  his  antiquated  little  study,  the 
pages  of  old  times  were  to  him  as  the  gazettes 
of  the  day  ;  while  the  era  of  the  Revolution 
was  mere  modern  history.  He  forgot  that 

*  From  the  Flying  Eagle,  a  small  gazette,  pub 
lished  December  24,  1652  :  "  The  House  spent  much 
time  this  day  about  the  business  of  the  Navy,  for 
settling  the  affairs  at  sea,  and  before  they  rose,  were 
presented  with  a  terrible  remonstrance  against  Christ 
mas  day,  grounded  upon  divine  Scriptures,  2  Cor.  v. 
16 ;  i  Cor.  xv.  14,  17  ;  and  in  honor  of  the  Lord's  Day, 
grounded  upon  these  Scriptures,  John  xx.  i ;  Rev.  i. 
10 ;  Psalm  cxviii.  24;  Lev.  xxiii.  7,  n  ;  Mark  xv.  8; 
Psalm  Ixxxiv.  10,  in  which  Christmas  is  called  Anti 
christ's  masse,  and  those  Masse-mongers,  and  Papists 
who  observe  it,  etc.  In  consequence  of  which  Parlia 
ment  spent  some  time  in  consultation  about  the  aboli 
tion  of  Christmas  day,  passed  orders  to  that  effect,  and 
resolved  to  sit  on  the  following  day,  which  was 
commonly  called  Christmas  day." 

V. 


Christmas  Dap 


nearly  two  centuries  had  elapsed  since  the  fiery 
persecution  of  poor  mince-pie  throughout  the 
land  ;  when  plum-porridge  was  denounced  as 
"  mere  popery,"  and  roast  beef  as  anti- Chris 
tian  ;  and  that  Christmas  had  been  brought  in 
again  triumphantly  with  the  merry  court  of 
King  Charles  at  the  Restoration.  He  kindled 
into  warmth  with  the  ardor  of  his  contest,  and 
the  host  of  imaginary  foes  with  whom  he  had 
to  combat  ;  he  had  a  stubborn  conflict  with  old 
Prynne  and  two  or  three  other  forgotten  cham 
pions  of  the  Round  Heads  on  the  subject  of 
Christmas  festivity  ;  and  concluded  by  urging 
his  hearers,  in  the  most  solemn  and  affecting 
manner,  to  stand  to  the  traditional  customs  of 
their  fathers,  and  feast  and  make  merry  on 
this  joyful  anniversary  of  the  Church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended  ap 
parently  with  more  immediate  effects  ;  for  on 
leaving  the  church  the  congregation  seemed 
one  and  all  possessed  with  the  gayety  of  spirit 
so  earnestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor.  The 
elder  folks  gathered  in  knots  in  the  churchyard, 
greeting  and  shaking  hands  ;  and  the  children 
ran  about  crying  Ule  !  Ule  i  and  repeating  some 
uncouth  rhymes,*  which  the  parson,  who  had 

*  "Ule!  Ule! 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule  ; 
Crack  nuts  and  cry  ule  !  " 


4s 


joined  us,  informed  me  had  been  handed  down 
from  days  of  yore.  The  villagers  doffed  their 
hats  to  the  Squire  as  he  passed,  giving  him  the 
good  wishes  of  the  season  with  every  appear 
ance  of  heartfelt  sincerity,  and  were  invited 
by  him  to  the  hall,  to  take  something  to  keep 
out  the  cold  of  the  weather  ;  and  I  heard  bless 
ings  uttered  by  several  of  the  poor,  which  con 
vinced  me  that,  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoyments, 
the  worthy  old  cavalier  had  not  forgotten  the 
true  Christmas  virtue  of  charity. 

On  our  way  homeward  his  heart  seemed 
overflowed  with  generous  and  happy  feelings. 
As  we  passed  over  a  rising  ground  which  com 
manded  something  of  a  prospect,  the  sounds 
of  rustic  merriment  now  and  then  reached  our 
ears  :  the  Squire  paused  for  a  few  moments, 
and  looked  around  with  an  air  of  inexpressible 
benignity.  The  beauty  of  the  day  was  of 
itself  sufficient  to  inspire  philanthrophy.  Not 
withstanding  the  frostiness  of  the  morning,  the 
sun  in  his  cloudless  journey  had  acquired  suf 
ficient  power  to  melt  away  the  thin  covering 
of  snow  from  every  southern  declivity,  and  to 
bring  out  the  living  green  which  adorns  an 
English  landscape  even  in  midwinter.  Large 
tracts  of  smiling  verdure  contrasted  with  the 
dazzling  whiteness  of  the  shaded  slopes  and 
hollows.  Every  sheltered  bank,  on  which  the 


Obristmas  Dap 


broad  rays  rested,  yielded  its  silver  rill  of  cold 
and  limpid  water,  glittering  through  the  drip 
ping  grass  ;  and  sent  up  slight  exhalations  to 
contribute  to  the  thin  haze  that  hung  just 
above  the  surface  of  the  earth.  There  was 
something  truly  cheering  in  this  triumph  of 
warmth  and  verdure  over  the  frosty  thraldom 
of  winter ;  it  was,  as  the  Squire  observed,  an 
emblem  of  Christmas  hospitality,  breaking 
through  the  chills  of  ceremony  and  selfishness, 
and  thawing  every  heart  into  a  flow.  He 
pointed  with  pleasure  to  the  indications  of 
good  cheer  reeking  from  the  chimneys  of  the 
comfortable  farm-houses  and  low  thatched  cot 
tages.  "I  love,"  said  he,  "to  see  this  day 
well  kept  by  rich  and  poor  ;  it  is  a  great  thing 
to  have  one  day  in  the  year,  at  least,  when  you 
are  sure  of  being  welcome  wherever  you  go, 
and  of  having,  as  it  were,  the  world  all  thrown 
open  to  you  ;  and  I  am  almost  disposed  to  join 
with  Poor  Robin,  in  his  malediction  on  every 
churlish  enemy  to  this  honest  festival,— 

"  Those  who  at  Christmas  do  repine 

And  would  fain  hence  dispatch  him, 
May  they  with  old  Duke  Humphry  dine, 
Or  else  may  Squire  Ketch  catch  'em." 

The  Squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable 
decay  of  the   games   and  amusements  which 


were  once  prevalent  at  this  season  among 
the  lower  orders,  and  countenanced  by  the 
higher  ;  when  the  old  halls  of  the  castles  and 
manor-houses  were  thrown  open  at  daylight  ; 
when  the  tables  were  covered  with  brawn,  and 
beef,  and  humming  ale  ;  when  the  harp  and 
the  carol  resounded  all  day  long,  and  when 
rich  and  poor  were  alike  welcome  to  enter  and 
make  merry.*  ' '  Our  old  games  and  local  cus 
toms,"  said  he,  "  had  a  great  effect  in  making 
the  peasant  fond  of  his  home,  and  the  promo 
tion  of  them  by  the  gentry  made  him  fond  of 
his  lord.  They  made  the  times  merrier,  and 
kinder,  and  better,  and  I  can  truly  say,  with 
one  of  our  old  poets,— 

1 1  like  them  well— the  curious  preciseness, 
And  all-pretended  gravity  of  those 
That  seek  to  banish  hence  these  harmless  sports 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty.' 

*  "  An  English  gentleman,  at  the  opening  of  the 
great  day,  i.  e.  on  Christmas  day  in  the  morning,  had 
all  his  tenants  and  neighbors  enter  his  hall  by  day 
break  .  The  strong  beer  was  broached,  and  the  black 
jacks  went  plentifully  about  with  toast,  sugar,  and 
nutmeg,  and  good  Cheshire  cheese.  The  Hackiu  (the 
great  sausage)  must  be  boiled  by  daybreak,  or  else  two 
young  men  must  take  the  maiden  (i.  e.  the  cook)  by 
the  arms,  and  run  her  round  the  market-place  till  she 
is  shamed  of  her  laziness."— Round  about  our  Sea- 
Coal  Fire. 


Cbristmas 


"The  nation,"  continued  he,  "is  altered; 
we  have  almost  lost  our  simple  true-hearted 
peasantry.  They  have  broken  asunder  from 
the  higher  classes,  and  seem  to  think  their 
interests  are  separate.  They  have  become  too 
knowing,  and  begin  to  read  newspapers,  listen 
to  ale-house  politicians,  and  talk  of  reform.  I 
think  one  mode  to  keep  them  in  good-humor 
in  these  hard  times  would  be  for  the  nobility 
and  gentry  to  pass  more  time  on  their  estates, 
mingle  more  among  the  country  people,  and 
set  the  merry  old  English  games  going  again." 

Such  was  the  good  Squire's  project  for  mit 
igating  public  discontent  :  and,  indeed,  he  had 
once  attempted  to  put  his  doctrine  in  practice, 
and  a  few  years  before  had  kept  open  house 
during  the  holidays  in  the  old  style.  The  coun 
try  people,  however,  did  not  understand  how  to 
play  their  parts  in  the  scene  of  hospitality  ; 
many  uncouth  circumstances  occurred ;  the 
manor  was  overrun  by  all  the  vagrants  of  the 
country,  and  more  beggars  drawn  into  the 
neighborhood  in  one  week  than  the  parish  offi 
cers  could  get  rid  of  in  a  year.  Since  then,  he 
had  contented  himself  with  inviting  the  decent 
part  of  the  neighboring  peasantry  to  call  at  the 
hall  on  Christmas  day,  and  with  distributing 
beef,  and  bread,  and  ale,  among  the  poor,  that 
they  might  make  merry  in  their  own  dwellings. 


We  had  not  been  long  home  when  the  sound 
of  music  was  heard  from  a  distance.     A  band 
of    country   lads,    without   coats,    their   shirt 
sleeves  fancifully  tied  with  ribbons,  their  hats 
decorated   with    greens,    and   clubs    in    their 
hands,  was  seen  advancing  up  the  avenue,  fol 
lowed  by  a  large  number  of  villagers  and  peas 
antry.     They    stopped    before  the    hall  door, 
where  the  music  struck  up  a  peculiar  air,  and 
the  lads   performed   a    curious   and    intricate 
dance,    advancing,    retreating,    and    striking 
their  clubs  together,  keeping  exact  time  to  the 
music  ;  while  one,  whimsically  crowned  with 
a  fox's  skin,  the  tail  of  which  flaunted  down 
his  back,  kept  capering  round  the  skirts  of  the 
dance,  and  rattling  a  Christmas  box  with  many 
antic  gesticulations. 

The  Squire  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition 
with  great  interest  and  delight,  and  gave  me 
a  full  account  of  its  origin,  which  he  traced  to 
the  times  when  the  Romans  held  possession  of 
the  island  ;  plainly  proving  that  this  was  a 
lineal  descendant  of  the  sword-dance  of  the 
ancients.  "It  was  now,"  he  said,  "nearly 
extinct,  but  he  had  accidentally  met  with  traces 
of  it  in  the  neighborhood,  and  had  encouraged 
its  revival ;  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was  too 
apt  to  be  followed  up  by  the  rough  cudgel  play, 
and  broken  heads  in  the  evening." 


Cbrtetmae 


After  the  dance  was  concluded,  the  whole 
party  was  entertained  with  brawn  and  beef, 
and  stout  home-brewed.  The  Squire  himself 
mingled  among  the  rustics,  and  was  received 
with  awkward  demonstrations  of  deference  and 
regard.  It  is  true  I  perceived  two  or  three  of 
the  younger  peasants,  as  they  were  raising 
their  tankards  to  their  mouths,  when  the 
Squire's  back  was  turned,  making  something 
of  a  grimace,  and  giving  each  other  the  wink  ; 
but  the  moment  they  caught  my  eye  the}' 
pulled  grave  faces,  and  were  exceedingly  de 
mure.  With  Master  Simon,  however,  they  all 
seemed  more  at  their  ease.  His  varied  occu 
pations  and  amusements  had  made  him  well 
known  throughout  the  neighborhood.  He  was 
a  visitor  at  every  farm-house  and  cottage  ; 
gossiped  with  the  farmers  and  their  wives ; 
romped  with  their  daughters  ;  and,  like  that 
type  of  a  vagrant  bachelor,  the  humblebee, 
tolled  the  sweets  from  all  the  rosy  lips  of  the 
country  round. 

The  bashfulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way 
before  good  cheer  and  affability.  There  is 
something  genuine  and  affectionate  in  the 
gayety  of  the  lower  orders,  when  it  is  excited 
by  the  bounty  and  familiarity  of  those  above 
them  ;  the  warm  glow  of  gratitude  enters  into 
their  mirth,  and  a  kind  word  or  a  small  pleas- 


54 


SfcetcbOBoofc 


an  try  frankly  uttered  by  a  patron,  gladdens 
f  ^  ft^  t^ie  ^eart  °f  *ke  dependent  more  than  oil  and 
x)  !\jp£\  wine.  When  the  Squire  had  retired,  the  mer 
riment  increased,  and  there  was  much  joking 
and  laughter,  particularly  betv/een  Master 
Simon  and  a  hale,  ruddy-faced,  white-headed 
farmer,  who  appeared  to  be  the  wit  of  the  vil 
lage  ;  for  I  observed  all  his  companions  to 
wait  with  open  mouths  for  his  retorts,  and 
burst  into  a  gratuitous  laugh  before  they  could 
well  understand  them. 

The  whole  house  indeed  seemed  abandoned 
to  merriment :  as  I  passed  to  my  room  to  dress 
for  dinner,  I  heard  the  sound  of  music  in  a 
small  court,  and,  looking  through  a  window 
that  commanded  it,  I  perceived  a  band  of  wan 
dering  musicians,  with  pandean  pipes  and 
tambourine ;  a  pretty  coquettish  housemaid 
was  dancing  a  jig  with, a  smart  country  lad, 
while  several  of  the  other  servants  were  look 
ing  on.  In  the  midst  of  her  sport  the  girl 
caught  a  glimpse  of  my  face  at  the  window, 
and,  coloring  up,  ran  off  with  an  air  of  roguish 
affected  confusion. 


-x 


\ 


ZTbc  Cbristmas  Dinner 


,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast  ! 
Let  every  man  be  jolly, 
Eache  roome  with  yvle  leaves  is  drest, 

And  every  post  with  holly. 
Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke, 

And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning  ; 
Their  ovens  they  with  bak't  meats  choke, 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 
Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 
And  if,  for  cold,  it  hap  to  die, 
Wee  'le  bury  't  in  a  Christmas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merry. 

WITHERS'  Juvenilia. 


HAD  finished  my  toilet,  and 
was  loitering  with  Frank 
Bracebridge  in  the  library, 
when  we  heard  a  distant 
thwacking  sound,  which  he 
informed  me  was  a  signal  for 
the  serving  up  of  the  dinner. 
The  Squire  kept  up  old  cus- 
toms  in  kitchen  as  well 

as  ^ia^  '  anc*  ^ie  r°lling~pin» 
struck  upon  the  dresser  by 

the   cook,    summoned    the    servants  to   carry 
in  the  meats. 


Cbe  5fcetcb<JBoofc 


"  Just  in  this  nick  the  cook  knock'd  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  thrice 

His  summons  did  obey  ; 
Each  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
March'd  boldly  up,like  our  train  band, 
Presented,  and  away."* 

The  dinner  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall 
where  the  Squire  always  held  his  Christmas 
banquet.  A  blazing,  crackling  fire  of  logs  had 
been  heaped  on  to  warm  the  spacious  apart 
ment,  and  the  flame  went  sparkling  and 
wreathing  up  the  wide-mouthed  chimney. 
The  great  picture  of  the  crusader  and  his 
white  horse  had  been  profusely  decorated  with 
greens  for  the  occasion  ;  and  holly  and  ivy 
had  likewise  been  wreathed  round  the  helmet 
and  weapons  on  the  opposite  wall,  which  I 
understood  were  the  arms  of  the  same  warrior. 
I  must  own,  by  the  by,  I  had  strong  doubts 
about  the  authenticity  of  the  painting  and 
armor  as  having  belonged  to  the  crusader, 
they  certainly  having  the  stamp  of  more 
recent  days  ;  but  I  was  told  that  the  painting 
had  been  so  considered  time  out  of  mind  ;  and 
that,  as  to  the  armor,  it  had  been  found  in  a 
lumber-room,  and  elevated  to  its  present  situa 
tion  by  the  Squire,  who  at  once  determined  it 
to  be  the  armor  of  the  family  hero  ;  and  as  he 

*  Sir  John  Suckling. 


\  f 


Cbc  Cbristmas  Dinner  57 

was  absolute  authority  on  all  such  subjects  in 
his  own  household,  the  matter  had  passed  into 
current  acceptation.  A  sideboard  was  set  out 
just  under  this  chivalric  trophy,  on  which 
was  a  display  of  plate  that  might  have  vied  (at 
least  in  variety)  with  Belshazzar's  parade  of 
the  vessels  of  the  temple  ;  ' '  flagons,  cans, 
cups,  beakers,  goblets,  basins,  and  ewers"; 
the  gorgeous  utensils  of  good  companionship 
that  had  gradually  accumulated  through  many 
generations  of  jovial  housekeepers.  Before 
these  stood  the  two  Yule  candles,  beaming  like 
two  stars  of  the  first  magnitude  ;  other  lights 
were  distributed  in  branches,  and  the  whole 
array  glittered  like  a  firmament  of  silver. 

We  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene 
with  the  sound  of  minstrelsy,  the  old  harper 
being  seated  on  a  stool  beside  the  fireplace,  and 
twanging  his  instrument  with  avast  deal  more 
power  than  melody.  Never  did  Christmas 
board  display  a  more  goodly  and  gracious 
assemblage  of  countenances  ;  those  who  were 
not  handsome  were,  at  least,  happy  ;  and 
happiness  is  a  rare  improver  of  your  hard- 
favored  visage.  I  always  consider  an  old 
English  family  as  well  worth  studying  as  a 
collection  of  Holbein's  portraits  or  Albert 
Diirer's  prints.  There  is  much  antiquarian 
lore  to  be  acquired  ;  much  knowledge  of  the 


physiognomies  of  former  times.  Perhaps  it 
may  be  from  having  continually  before  their 
eyes  those  rows  of  old  family  portraits,  with 
which  the  mansions  of  this  country  are  stocked  ; 
certain  it  is,  that  the  quaint  features  of  anti 
quity  are  often  most  faithfully  perpetuated  in 
these  ancient  lines  ;  and  I  have  traced  an  old 
family  nose  through  a  whole  picture  gallery, 
legitimately  handed  down  from  generation  to 
generation,  almost  from  the  time  of  the 
Conquest.  Something  of  the  kind  was  to  be 
observed  in  the  worthy  company  around  me. 
Many  of  their  faces  had  evidently  originated 
in  a  Gothic  age,  and  been  merely  copied  by 
succeeding  generations  ;  and  there  was  one 
little  girl  in  particular,  of  staid  demeanor,  with 
a  high  Roman  nose,  and  an  antique  vinegar 
aspect,  who  was  a  great  favorite  of  the  Squire's, 
being,  as  he  said,  a  Bracebridge  all  over,  and 
the  very  counterpart  of  one  of  his  ancestors 
who  figured  in  the  court  of  Henry  VIII. 

The  parson  said  grace,  which  was  not  a  short 
familiar  one,  such  as  is  commonly  addressed 
to  the  Deity  in  these  unceremonious  days  ;  but 
a  long  courtly,  well -worded  one  of  the  ancient 
school.  There  was  now  a  pause,  as  if  some 
thing  was  expected  ;  when  suddenly  the  butler 
entered  the  hall  with  some  degree  of  bustle  : 
he  was  attended  by  a  servant  on  each  side  with 


ffl 


Cbc  Cbristmas  Dinner  59 

a  large  wax-light,  and  bore  a  silver  dish,  on 
which  was  an  enormous  pig's  head,  decorated 
with  rosemary,  with  a  lemon  in  its  mouth, 
which  was  placed  with  great  formality  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  The  moment  this  pageant 
made  its  appearance,  the  harper  struck  up  a 
flourish  ;  at  the  conclusion  of  which  the  young 
Oxonian,  on  receiving  a  hint  from  the  Squire, 
gave,  with  an  air  of  the  most  comic  gravity, 
an  old  carol,  the  first  verse  of  which  was  as 
follows : 

"  Caput  apri  defero 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 
The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary. 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merrily 

Qui  estis  in  convivio." 

Though  prepared  to  witness  many  of  these 
little  eccentricities,  from  being  apprised  of  the 
peculiar  hobby  of  mine  host,  yet,  I  confess, 
the  parade  with  which  so  odd  a  dish  was  intro 
duced  somewhat  perplexed  me,  until  I 
gathered  from  the  conversation  of  the  Squire 
and  the  parson,  that  it  was  meant  to  represent 
the  bringing  in  of  the  boar's  head  :  a  dish 
formerly  served  up  with  much  ceremony  and 
the  sound  of  minstrelsy  and  song,  at  great 
tables,  on  Christmas  day.  "  I  like  the  old  cus- 


Cbe  Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


torn,"  said  the  Squire,  "  not  merely  because  it 
is  stately  and  pleasing  in  itself,  but  because  it 
was  observed  at  the  college  at  Oxford  at  which 
I  was  educated.  When  I  hear  the  old  song 
chanted,  it  brings  to  mind  the  time  when  I  was 
young  and  gamesome, — and  the  noble  old 
college  hall, — and  my  fellow-students  loitering 
about  in  their  black  gowns  ;  many  of  whom, 
poor  lads,  are  now  in  their  graves  !  " 

The  parson,  however,  whose  mind  was  not 
haunted  by  such  associations,  and  who  was 
always  more  taken  up  with  the  text  than  the 
V  '  ^  sentiment,  objected  to  the  Oxonian's  version 
of  the  carol  ;  which  he  affirmed  was  different 
from  that  sung  at  college.  He  went  on,  with 
the  dry  perseverance  of  a  commentator,  to  give 
the  college  reading,  accompanied  by  sundry 
annotations  ;  addressing  himself  at  first  to  the 
company  at  large  ;  but  finding  their  attention 
gradually  diverted  to  other  talk  and  other 
objects,  he  lowered  his  tone  as  his  number  of 
auditors  diminished,  until  he  concluded  his 
remarks  in  an  undervoice  to  a  fat-headed  old 
gentleman  next  him,  who  was  silently  engaged 
in  the  discussion  of  a  huge  plateful  of  turkey.* 

*  The  old  ceremony  of  serving  up  the  boar's  head 
on  Christmas  day  is  still  observed  in  the  hall  of 
Queen's  College,  Oxford.  I  was  favored  by  the  par 
son  with  a  copy  of  the  carol  as  now  sung,  and,  as  it 


Cbristmas  Binncr 


61 


The  table  was  literally  loaded  with  good 
cheer,  and  presented  an  epitome  of  country 
abundance,  in  this  season  of  overflowing 
larders.  A  distinguished  post  was  allotted  to 
"ancient  sirloin,"  as  mine  host  termed  it; 
being,  as  he  added,  "the  standard  of  old  Eng 
lish  hospitality,  and  a  joint  of  goodly  presence, 
and  full  of  expectation."  There  were  several 
dishes  quaintly  decorated,  and  which  had  evi 
dently  something  traditional  in  their  embellish- 

may  be  acceptable  to  such  of  my  readers  as  are  curious 
in  these  grave  and  learned  matters,  I  give  it  entire. 

"  The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary  ; 
And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  merry 
Quot  estis  in  convivio. 
Caput  apri  defero, 
Reddens  laudes  Domino. 

"The  boar's  head,  as  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land, 
Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland 
Let  us  servire  cantico. 
Caput  apri  defero,  etc. 

"  Our  steward  hath  provided  this 
In  honor  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
In  Reginensi  Atrio. 
Caput  apri  defero," 

etc.,  etc.,  etc. 


ft 


62 


ments  ;  but  about  which,  as  I  did  not  like  to 
appear  over-curious,  I  asked  no  questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie,  mag 
nificently  decorated  with  peacock's  feathers,  in 
imitation  of  the  tail  of  that  bird,  which  over 
shadowed  a  considerable  tract  of  the  table. 
This,  the  Squire  confessed,  with  some  little 
hesitation,  was  a  pheasant-pie,  though  a  pea 
cock-pie  was  certainly  the  most  authentical  ; 
but  there  had  been  such  a  mortality  among  the 
peacocks  this  season,  that  he  could  not  prevail 
upon  himself  to  have  one  killed.* 

*The  peacock  was  anciently  in  great  demand  for 
stately  entertainments.  Sometimes  it  was  made  into 
a  pie,  at  one  end  of  which  the  head  appeared  above 
the  crust  in  all  its  plumage,  with  the  beak  richly  gilt ; 
at  the  other  end  the  tail  was  displayed.  Such  pies 
were  served  up  at  the  solemn  banquets  of  chivalry, 
when  knights-errant  pledged  themselves  to  undertake 
any  perilous  enterprise,  whence  came  the  ancient 
oath,  used  by  Justice  Shallow,  "  by  cock  and  pie." 

The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the 
Christmas  feast ;  and  Massinger,  in  his  "  City 
Madam,"  gives  some  idea  of  the  extravagance  with 
which  this,  as  well  as  other  dishes,  was  prepared  for 
the  gorgeous  revels  of  the  olden  times  : 

"  Men  may  talk  of  Country  Christmasses, 
"  Their  thirty  pound  butter'd  eggs,  their  pies  of 
carps'  tongues  ; 

44 Their  pheasants  drench'd  with  ambergris;    the 


&*i 


ra 


Cbe  Cbrtetmas  Dinner 


It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser 
readers,  who  may  not  have  that  foolish  fond 
ness  for  odd  and  obsolete  things  to  which  I 
am  a  little  given,  were  I  to  mention  the  other 
makeshifts  of  this  worthy  old  humorist,  by 
which  he  was  endeavoring  to  follow  up,  though 
at  humble  distance,  the  quaint  customs  of 
antiquity.  I  was  pleased,  however,  to  see  the 
respect  shown  to  his  whims  by  his  children 
and  relatives  ;  who,  indeed,  entered  readily 
into  the  full  spirit  of  them,  and  seemed  all  well 
versed  in  their  parts  ;  having  doubtless  been 
present  at  many  a  rehearsal.  I  was  amused, 
too,  at  the  air  of  profound  gravity  with  which 
the  butler  and  other  servants  executed  the 
duties  assigned  them,  however  eccentric.  They 
had  an  old-fashioned  look  ;  having,  for  the 
most  part,  been  brought  up  in  the  household, 
and  grown  into  keeping  with  the  antiquated 
mansion,  and  the  humors  of  its  lord  ;  and  most 
probably  looked  upon  all  his  whimsical  regu 
lations  as  the  established  laws  of  honorable 
housekeeping. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  the  butler 
brought  in  a  huge  silver  vessel  of  rare  and  cu 
rious  workmanship,  which  he  placed  before  the 
Squire.  Its  appearance  was  hailed  with  ac- 

carcascs  of  three  fat  wethers  bruised  for  gravy  to  make 
sauce  for  a  single  peacock." 


clamation  ;  being  the  Wassail  Bowl,  so  re 
nowned  in  Christmas  festivity.  The  contents 
had  been  prepared  by  the  Squire  himself ;  for 
it  was  a  beverage  in  the  skilful  mixture  of 
which  he  particularly  prided  himself ;  alleging 
that  it  was  too  abtruse  and  complex  for  the 
comprehension  of  an  ordinary  servant.  It  was 
a  potation,  indeed,  that  might  well  make  the 
heart  of  a  toper  leap  within  him  ;  being  com 
posed  of  the  richest  and  raciest  wines,  highly 
spiced  and  sweetened,  with  roasted  apples  bob 
bing  about  the  surface.* 

The  old  gentleman's  whole  countenance 
beamed  with  a  serene  look  of  indwelling  delight, 
as  he  stirred  this  mighty  bowl.  Having  raised 
it  to  his  lips,  with  a  hearty  wish  of  a  merry 
Christmas  to  all  present,  he  sent  it  brimming 

*  The  Wassail  Bowl  was  sometimes  composed  of  ale 
instead  of  wine ;  with  nutmeg,  sugar,  toast,  ginger, 
and  roasted  crabs  :  in  this  way  the  nut-brown  bever 
age  is  still  prepared  in  some  old  families  and  round 
the  hearths  of  substantial  farmers  at  Christmas.  It  is 
also  called  Lamb's  Wool,  and  is  celebrated  by  Herrick 
in  his  " Twelfth  Night"  : 

"      Next  crowne  the  bowle  full 
With  gentle  Lamb's  Wool  ; 

Add  sugar,  nutmeg,  and  ginger 
With  store  of  ale  too  ; 
And  thus  ye  must  doe 

To  make  the  Wassaile  a  swinger." 


It. 


Cbe  Cbristmas  ©inner 


round  the  board,  for  every  one  to  follow  his 
example,  according  to  the  primitive  style; 
pronouncing  it  "  the  ancient  fountain  of  good 
feeling,  where  all  hearts  met  together. ' '  * 

There  was  much  laughing  and  rallying  as 
the  honest  emblem  of  Christmas  joviality  circu 
lated,  and  was  kissed  rather  coyly  by  the  ladies. 
When  it  reached  Master  Simon,  he  raised  it  in 
both  hands,  and  with  the  air  of  a  boon  com 
panion  struck  up  an  old  Wassail  chanson. 

"  The  brown  bowle, 
The  merry  brown  bowle, 
As  it  goes  round  about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 

Let  the  world  say  what  it  will 
And  drink  your  fill  all  out-a. 

"The  deep  canne, 
The  merry  deep  caune, 
As  thou  dost  freely  quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 

Be  as  merry  as  a  king, 
And  sound  a  lusty  laugh-a."  f 

*  "The  custom  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup 
gave  place  to  each  having  his  cup.  When  the  stew 
ard  came  to  the  doore  with  the  Wassel,  he  was  to  cry 
three  times,  Wassel,  Wassel,  Wassel,  and  then  the 
chappell,  (chaplein)  was  to  answer  with  a  song." — 

ARCH^OI^OGIA. 

f  From  Poor  Robin's  Almanac. 

VOL.  II. — 5 


ft 


Much  of  the  conversation  during  dinner 
turned  upon  family  topics,  to  which  I  was  a 
stranger.  There  was,  however,  a  great  deal 
of  rallying  of  Master  Simon  about  some  gay 
widow,  with  whom  he  was  accused  of  having 
a  flirtation.  This  attack  was  commenced  by 
the  ladies ;  but  it  was  continued  throughout 
the  dinner,  by  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman 
next  the  parson,  with  the  persevering  assiduity 
of  a  slow  hound  ;  being  one  of  those  long- 
winded  jokers,  who,  though  rather  dull  at 
starting  game,  are  unrivalled  for  their  talents 
in  hunting  it  down.  At  every  pause  in  the 
general  conversation,  he  renewed  his  bantering 
in  pretty  much  the  same  terms  ;  winking  hard 
at  me  with  both  eyes,  whenever  he  gave  Mas 
ter  Simon  what  he  considered  a  home  thrust. 
The  latter,  indeed,  seemed  fond  of  being  teased 
on  the  subject,  as  old  bachelors  are  apt  to  be  ; 
and  he  took  occasion  to  inform  me,  in  an  under 
tone,  that  the  lady  in  question  was  a  prodig 
iously  fine  woman,  and  drove  her  own  curricle. 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  flow  of 
innocent  hilarity,  and,  though  the  old  hall  may 
have  resounded  in  its  time  with  many  a  scene 
of  broader  rout  and  revel,  yet  I  doubt  whether 
it  ever  witnessed  more  honest  and  genuine  en 
joyment.  How  easy  it  is  for  one  benevolent 
being  to  diffuse  pleasure  around  him  ;  and  how 


Cbe  Cbrtstmas  Dinner  67 

truly  is  a  kind  heart  a  fountain  of  gladness, 
making  everything  in  its  vicinity  to  freshen 
into  smiles !  the  joyous  disposition  of  the 
worthy  Squire  was  perfectly  contagious ;  he 
was  happy  himself,  and  disposed  to  make  all 
the  world  happy  ;  and  the  little  eccentricities 
of  his  humor  did  but  season,  in  a  manner,  the 
sweetness  of  his  philanthropy. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  conversa 
tion,  as  usual,  became  still  more  animated ; 
many  good  things  were  broached  which  had 
been  thought  of  during  dinner,  but  which 
would  not  exactly  do  for  a  lady's  ear  ;  and 
though  I  cannot  positively  affirm  that  there 
was  much  wit  uttered,  yet  I  have  certainly 
heard  many  contests  of  rare  wit  produce  much 
less  laughter.  Wit,  after  all,  is  a  mighty  tart, 
pungent  ingredient,  and  much  too  acid  for 
some  stomachs  ;  but  honest  good-humor  is  the 
oil  and  wine  of  a  merry  meeting,  and  there  is 
no  jovial  companionship  equal  to  that  where 
the  jokes  are  rather  small,  and  the  laughter 
abundant. 

The  Squire  told  several  long  stories  of  early 
college  pranks  and  adventures,  in  some  of 
which  the  parson  had  been  a  sharer ;  though 
in  looking  at  the  latter,  it  required  some  effort 
of  imagination  to  figure  such  a  little  dark 
anatomy  of  a  man  into  the  perpetrator  of  a 


68 


madcap  gambol.  Indeed,  the  two  college 
chums  presented  pictures  of  what  men  may 
be  made  by  their  different  lots  in  life.  The 
Squire  had  left  the  university  to  live  lust 
ily  on  his  paternal  domains,  in  the  vigorous 
enjoyment  of  prosperity  and  sunshine,  and 
had  flourished  on  to  a  hearty  and  florid  old 
age  ;  whilst  the  poor  parson,  on  the  contrary, 
had  dried  and  withered  away  among  dusty 
tomes,  in  the  silence  and  shadows  of  his  study. 
Still  there  seemed  to  be  a  spark  of  almost  ex 
tinguished  fire,  feebly  glimmering  in  the  bot 
tom  of  his  soul ;  and  as  the  Squire  hinted  at 
a  sly  story  of  the  parson  and  a  pretty  milk 
maid,  whom  they  once  met  on  the  banks  of  the 
Isis,  the  old  gentleman  made  an  ' '  alphabet  of 
faces,"  which,  as  far  as  I  could  decipher  his 
physiognomy,  I  verily  believe  was  indicative 
of  laughter  ; — indeed,  I  have  rarely  met  with 
an  old  gentleman  that  took  absolute  offence 
at  the  imputed  gallantries  of  his  youth. 

I  found  the  tide  of  wine  and  wassail  fast 
gaining  on  the  dry  land  of  sober  judgment. 
The  company  grew  merrier  and  louder  as  their 
jokes  grew  duller.  Master  Simon  was  in  as 
chirping  a  humor  as  a  grasshopper  filled  with 
dew  ;  his  old  songs  grew  of  a  warmer  com 
plexion,  and  he  began  to  talk  maudlin  about 
the  widow.  He  even  gave  a  long  song  about 


Cbc  Cbrfstmas  Binncr 


the  wooing  of  a  widow,  which  he  informed  me 
he  had  gathered  from  an  excellent  black-letter 
work,  entitled  Cupid' s  Solicitor  for  Love, 
containing  store  of  good  advice  for  bachelors, 
and  which  he  promised  to  lend  me.  The  first 
verse  was  to  this  effect : 

"  He  that  will  woo  a  widow  must  not  dally, 

He  must  make  hay  while  the  sun  doth  shine  ; 
He  must  not  stand  with  her,  shall  I,  shall  I  ? 
But  boldly  say,  Widow,  thou  must  be  mine  ?  " 

This  song  inspired  the  fat-headed  old  gen 
tleman,  who  made  several  attempts  to  tell  a 
rather  broad  story  out  of  Joe  Miller,  that  was 
pat  to  the  purpose ;  but  he  always  stuck 
in  the  middle,  everybody  recollecting  the  latter 
part  excepting  himself.  The  parson,  too,  be 
gan  to  show  the  effects  of  good  cheer,  having 
gradually  settled  down  into  a  doze,  and  his 
wig  sitting  most  suspiciously  on  one  side. 
Just  at  this  juncture  we  were  summoned  to 
the  drawing-room,  and,  I  suspect,  at  the  pri 
vate  instigation  of  mine  host,  whose  joviality 
seemed  always  tempered  with  a  proper  love  of 
decorum. 

After  the  dinner-table  was  removed,  the  hall 
was  given  up  to  the  younger  members  of  the 
family,  who,  prompted  to  all  kind  of  noisy 
mirth  by  the  Oxonian  and  Master  Simon, 


made  its  old  walls  ring  with  their  merriment, 
as  they  played  at  romping  games.  I  delight 
in  witnessing  the  gambols  of  children,  and 
particularly  at  this  happy  holiday  season,  and 
could  not  help  stealing  out  of  the  drawing- 
room  on  hearing  one  of  their  peals  of  laughter. 
I  found  them  at  the  game  of  blind-man's- 
buff.  Master  Simon,  who  was  the  leader  of 
their  revels,  and  seemed  on  all  occasions  to 
fulfil  the  office  of  that  ancient  potentate,  the 
Lord  of  Misrule,*  was  blinded  in  the  midst 
of  the  hall.  The  little  beings  were  as  busy 
about  him  as  the  mock  fairies  about  Falstaff ; 
pinching  him,  plucking  at  the  skirts  of  his 
coat,  and  tickling  him  with  straws.  One  fine 
blue-eyed  girl  of  about  thirteen,  with  her 
flaxen  hair  all  in  beautiful  confusion,  her 
frolic  face  in  a  glow,  her  frock  half  torn  off 
her  shoulders,  a  complete  picture  of  a  romp, 
was  the  chief  tormentor  ;  and,  from  the  sly 
ness  with  which  Master  Simon  avoided  the 
smaller  game,  and  hemmed  this  wild  little 
nymph  in  corners,  and  obliged  her  to  jump 
shrieking  over  chairs,  I  suspected  the  rogue 

*  "  At  Christmasse  there  was  in  the  Kinge's  house, 
wheresoever  hee  was  lodged,  a  lorde  of  misrule,  or 
mayster  of  merie  disportes,  and  the  like  had  ye  in  the 
house  of  every  nobleman  of  honor,  or  good  wor- 
shippe,  were  hespirituall  or  temporal!. " — STOWE. 


Gbe  Cbrlstmas  Dinner 


of  being  not  a  whit  more  blinded  than   was 
convenient. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  I 
found  the  company  seated  round  the  fire,  listen 
ing  to  the  parson,  who  was  deeply  ensconced 
in  a  high-backed  oaken  chair,  the  work  of 
some  cunning  artificer  of  yore,  which  had  been 
brought  from  the  library  for  his  particular 
accommodation.  From  this  venerable  piece 
of  funiiture,  with  which  his  shadowy  figure 
and  dark  weazen  face  so  admirably  accorded, 
he  was  dealing  out  strange  accounts  of  the 
popular  superstitions  and  legends  of  the  sur 
rounding  country,  with  which  he  had  become 
acquainted  in  the  course  of  his  antiquarian 
researches.  I  am  half  inclined  to  think  that 
the  old  gentleman  was  himself  somewhat  tinc 
tured  with  superstition,  as  men  are  very  apt 
to  be  who  live  a  recluse  and  studious  life  in  a 
sequestered  part  of  the  country,  and  pore  over 
black-letter  tracts,  so  often  filled  with  the  mar 
vellous  and  supernatural.  He  gave  us  several 
anecdotes  of  the  fancies  of  the  neighboring 
peasantry,  concerning  the  effigy  of  the  crusa 
der,  which  lay  on  the  tomb  by  the  church-altar. 
As  it  was  the  only  monument  of  the  kind  in 
that  part  of  the  country,  it  had  always  been 
regarded  with  feelings  of  superstition  by  the 
good  wives  of  the  village.  It  was  said  to  get 


up  from  the  tomb  and  walk  the  rounds  of  the 
churchyard  in  stormy  nights,  particularly  when 
it  thundered  ;  and  one  old  woman,  whose  cot 
tage  bordered  on  the  churchyard,  had  seen  it 
through  the  windows  of  the  church,  when  the 
moon  shone,  slowly  pacing  up  and  down  the 
aisles.  It  was  the  belief  that  some  wrong  had 
been  left  unredressed  by  the  deceased,  or  some 
treasure  hidden,  which  kept  the  spirit  in  a 
state  of  trouble  and  restlessness.  Some  talked 
of  gold  and  jewels  buried  in  the  tomb,  over 
which  the  spectre  kept  watch  ;  and  there  was 
a  story  current  of  a  sexton  in  old  times,  who 
endeavored  to  break  his  way  to  the  coffin  at 
night,  but,  just  as  he  reached  it,  received  a 
violent  blow  from  the  marble  hand  of  the 
effigy,  which  stretched  him  senseless  on  the 
pavement.  These  tales  were  often  laughed  at 
by  some  of  the  sturdier  among  the  rustics,  yet, 
when  night  came  on,  there  were  many  of  the 
stoutest  unbelievers  that  were  shy  of  venturing 
alone  in  the  footpath  that  led  across  the  church 
yard. 

From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  fol 
lowed,  the  crusader  appeared  to  be  the  favorite 
hero  of  ghost-stories  throughout  the  vicinity. 
His  picture,  which  hung  up  in  the  hall,  was 
thought  by  the  servants  to  have  something 
supernatural  about  it ;  for  they  remarked  that, 


(Tbe  Christmas  Dinner 


73 


in  whatever  part  of  the  hall  you  went,  the  eyes 
of  the  warrior  were  still  fixed  on  you.  The 
old  porter's  wife,  too,  at  the  lodge,  who  had 
been  born  and  brought  up  in  the  family,  and 
was  a  great  gossip  among  the  maid  servants, 
affirmed,  that  in  her  young  days  she  had  often 
heard  say,  that  on  Midsummer  eve,  when  it 
was  well  known  all  kinds  of  ghosts,  goblins, 
and  fairies  become  visible  and  walk  abroad, 
the  crusader  used  to  mount  his  horse,  come 
down  from  his  picture,  ride  about  the  house, 
down  the  avenue,  and  so  to  the  church  to  visit 
the  tomb  ;  on  which  occasion  the  church-door 
most  civilly  swung  open  itself;  not  that  he 
needed  it,  for  he  rode  through  closed  gates  and 
even  stone  walls,  and  had  been  seen  by  one 
of  the  dairy-maids  to  pass  between  two  bars  of 
the  great  park-gate,  making  himself  as  thin 
as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been 
very  much  countenanced  by  the  Squire,  who, 
though  not  superstitious  himself,  was  very 
fond  of  seeing  others  so.  He  listened  to  every 
goblin-tale  of  the  neighboring  gossips  with 
infinite  gravity,  and  held  the  porter's  wife  in 
high  favor  on  account  of  her  talent  for  the 
marvellous.  He  was  himself  a  great  reader 
of  old  legends  and  romances,  and  often 
lamented  that  he  could  not  believe  in  them  ; 


for  a  superstitious  person,  he  thought,  must 
live  in  a  kind  of  fairy  land. 

Whilst  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's 
stories,  our  ears  were  suddenly  assailed  by  a 
burst  of  heterogeneous  sounds  from  the  hall, 
in  which  were  mingled  something  like  the 
clang  of  rude  minstrelsy,  with  the  uproar  of 
many  small  voices  and  girlish  laughter.  The 
door  suddenly  flew  open,  and  a  train  came 
trooping  into  the  room,  that  might  almost  have 
been  mistaken  for  the  breaking  up  of  the  court 
of  Fairy.  That  indefatigable  spirit,  Master  Si 
mon,  in  the  faithful  discharge  of  his  duties  as 
lord  of  misrule,  had  conceived  the  idea  of  a 
Christmas  mummery  or  masking  ;  and  having 
called  into  his  assistance  the  Oxonian  and  the 
young  officer,  who  were  equally  ripe  for  any 
thing  that  should  occasion  romping  and  merri 
ment,  they  had  carried  it  into  instant  effect. 
The  old  housekeeper  had  been  consulted  ;  the 
antique  clothes-presses  and  wardrobes  rum 
maged,  and  made  to  yield  up  the  relics  of 
finery  that  had  not  seen  the  light  for  several 
generations  ;  the  younger  part  of  the  company 
had  been  privately  convened  from  the  parlor 
and  hall,  and  the  whole  had  been  bedizened 
out,  into  a  burlesque  imitation  of  an  antique 
mask.* 

*  Maskings  or  mummeries  were  favorite  sports  at 


Cbe  Cbristmas  EMnncr 


75 


Master  Simon  led  the  van,  as  "Ancient 
Christmas,"  quaintly  apparelled  in  a  ruff,  a 
short  cloak,  which  had  very  much  the  aspect 
of  one  of  the  old  housekeeper's  petticoats,  and 
a  hat  that  might  have  served  for  a  village 
steeple,  and  must  indubitably  have  figured  in 
the  days  of  the  Covenanters.  From  under 
this  his  nose  curved  boldly  forth,  flushed  with 
a  frostbitten  bloom,  that  seemed  the  very  tro 
phy  of  a  December  blast.  He  was  accompan 
ied  by  the  blue-eyed  romp,  dished  up  as 
"  Darne  Mince  Pie,"  in  the  venerable  magnifi 
cence  of  a  faded  brocade,  long  stomacher, 
peaked  hat,  and  high-heeled  shoes.  The  young 
officer  appeared  as  Robin  Hood,  in  a  sporting 
dress  of  Kendal  green,  and  a  foraging  cap  with 
a  gold  tassel. 

The  costume,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testi 
mony  to  deep  research,  and  there  was  an  evi 
dent  eye  to  the  picturesque,  natural  to  a  young 
gallant  in  the  presence  of  his  mistress.  The 
fair  Julia  hung  on  his  arm  in  a  pretty  rustic 
dress,  as  "Maid  Marian."  The  rest  of  the 
train  had  been  metamorphosed  in  various 

Christmas  in  old  times  ;  and  the  wardrobes  at  halls 
and  manor-houses  were  often  laid  under  contribution 
to  furnish  dresses  and  fantastic  disguisings.  I  strongly 
suspect  Master  Simon  to  have  taken  the  idea  of  his 
from  Ben  Jonson's  "  Masque  of  Christmas." 


76  Cbe  5fcetcb<RSoofc 

ways  :  the  girls  trussed  up  in  the  finery  of  the 
ancient  belles  of  the  Bracebridge  line,  and  the 
striplings  bewhiskered  with  burnt  cork,  and 
gravely  clad  in  broad  skirts,  hanging  sleeves, 
and  full-bottomed  wigs,  to  represent  the  char 
acter  of  Roast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding,  and  other 
worthies  celebrated  in  ancient  maskings.  The 
whole  was  under  the  control  of  the  Oxonian, 
in  the  appropriate  character  of  Misrule  ;  and  I 
observed  that  he  exercised  rather  a  mischievous 
sway  with  his  wand  over  the  smaller  personages 
of  the  pageant. 

The  irruption  of  his  motley  crew,  with  beat 
of  drum,  according  to  ancient  custom,  was  the 
consummation  of  uproar  and  merriment.  Mas 
ter  Simon  covered  himself  with  glory  by  the 
stateliness  with  which,  as  Ancient  Christmas, 
he  walked  a  minuet  with  the  peerless,  though 
giggling,  Dame  Mince  Pie.  It  was  followed 
by  a  dance  of  all  the  characters,  which,  from 
its  medley  of  costumes,  seemed  as  though  the 
old  family  portraits  had  skipped  down  from 
their  frames  to  join  in  the  sport.  Different 
centuries  were  figuring  at  cross  hands  and 
right  and  left ;  the  dark  ages  were  cutting 
pirouettes  and  rigadoons ;  and  the  days  of 
Queen  Bess  jigging  merrily  down  the  middle, 
through  a  line  of  succeeding  generations. 

The  worthy  Squire  contemplated  these  fan- 


,. 


Cbe  Christmas  Dinner 


tastic  sports,  and  this  resurrection  of  his  old 
wardrobe,  with  the  simple  relish  of  childish 
delight.  He  stood  chuckling  and  rubbing  his 
hands,  and  scarcely  hearing  a  word  the  parson 
said,  notwithstanding  that  the  latter  was  dis 
coursing  most  authentically  on  the  ancient  and 
stately  dance  at  the  Paon,  or  peacock,  from 
which  he  conceived  the  minuet  to  be  derived.* 
For  my  part,  I  was  in  a  continual  excitement 
from  the  varied  scenes  of  whim  and  innocent 
gayety  passing  before  me.  It  was  inspiring  to 
see  wild-eyed  frolic  and  warm-hearted  hospital 
ity  breaking  out  from  among  the  chills  and 
glooms  of  winter,  and  old  age  throwing  off  his 
apathy,  and  catching  once  more  the  freshness 
of  youthful  enjoyment.  I  felt  also  an  interest 
in  the  scene,  from  the  consideration  that  these 
fleeting  customs  were  posting  fast  into  oblivion, 
and  that  this  was,  perhaps,  the  only  family  in 
England  in  which  the  whole  of  them  was  still 
punctiliously  observed.  There  was  a  quaint- 
ness,  too,  mingled  with  all  this  revelry,  that 
*  Sir  John  Hawkins,  speaking  of  the  dance  called 
the  Pa  von,  from  pavo,  a  peacock,  says  :  "  It  is  a  grave 
and  majestic  dance,  the  method  of  dancing  it  anciently 
was  by  gentlemen  dressed  with  caps  and  swords,  by 
those  of  the  long  robe  in  their  gowns,  by  the  peers  in 
their  mantles,  and  by  the  ladies  in  gowns  with  long 
trains,  the  motion  whereof,  in  dancing,  resembled  that 
of  a  peacock."— History  of  Music. 


gave  it  a  peculiar  zest  :  it  was  suited  to  the 
time  and  place  ;  and  as  the  old  manor-house 
almost  reeled  with  mirth  and  wassail,  it  seemed 
echoing  back  the  joviality  of  long  departed 
years.* 

But  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols  ;  it 
is  time  for  me  to  pause  in  this  garrulity.  Me- 
thinks  I  hear  the  questions  asked  by  my  graver 
readers,  "  To  what  purpose  is  all  this  ;  how  is 
the  world  to  be  made  wiser  by  this  talk  ?  ' ' 
Alas  !  is  there  not  wisdom  enough  extant  for 
the  instruction  of  the  world  ?  And  if  not,  are 
there  not  thousands  of  abler  pens  laboring  for 
its  improvement  ? — It  is  so  much  pleasanter  to 
please  than  to  instruct, — to  play  the  companion 
rather  than  the  preceptor. 

What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wisdom  that  I 
could  throw  into  the  mass  of  knowledge ;  or 
how  am  I  sure  that  my  sagest  deductions  may 
be  safe  guides  for  the  opinions  of  others  ?  But 
in  writing  to  amuse,  if  I  fail,  the  only  evil  is 

*  At  the  time  of  the  first  publication  of  this  paper, 
the  picture  of  an  old-fashioned  Christmas  in  the  coun 
try  was  pronounced  by  some  as  out  of  date.  The  au 
thor  had  afterwards  an  opportunity  of  witnessing 
almost  all  the  customs  above  described,  existing  in 
unexpected  vigor  in  the  skirts  of  Derbyshire  and 
Yorkshire,  where  he  passed  the  Christmas  holidays. 
The  reader  will  find  some  notice  of  them  in  the 
author's  account  of  his  sojourn  at  Newstead  Abbey. 

jfe 


w     n 
Cbe  Cbristmas  EHmier 


79 


in  my  own  disappointment.  If,  however,  I  can 
by  any  lucky  chance,  in  these  days  of  evil,  rub 
out  one  wrinkle  from  the  brow  of  care,  or 
beguile  the  heavy  heart  of  one  moment  of  sor 
row  ;  if  I  can  now  and  then  penetrate  through 
the  gathering  film  of  misanthropy,  prompt  a 
benevolent  view  of  human  nature,  and  make 
my  reader  more  in  good-humor  with  his  fellow- 
beings  and  himself,  surely,  surely,  I  shall  not 
then  have  written  entirely  in  vain. 


Xonfcon  Hntiques 


1  do  walk 

Methinks  like  Guido  Vaux,  with  my  dark  lanthorn, 
Stealing  to  set  the  town  o'  fire  ;  i'  th'  country 
I  should  be  taken  for  William  o'  the  Wisp, 
Or  Robin  Goodfellow. — FLETCHER. 


AM  somewhat  of  an  antiquity-hunter,  and 
am  fond  of  exploring  London  in  quest  of 
the  relics  of  old  times.  These  are  princi 
pally  to  be  found  in  the  depths  of  the  city, 
swallowed  up  and  almost  lost  in  a  wilder 
ness  of  brick  and  mortar  ;  but  deriving  poetical 
and  romantic  interest  from  the  commonplace, 
prosaic  world  around  them.  I  was  struck  with 
an  instance  of  the  kind  in  the  course  of  a 
recent  summer  ramble  into  the  city  ;  for  the 
city  is  only  to  be  explored  to  advantage  in 
summer  time,  when  free  from  the  smoke  and 
fog,  and  rain  and  mud  of  winter.  I  had  been 
buffeting  for  some  time  against  the  current  of 
population  setting  through  Fleet  Street.  The 
warm  weather  had  unstrung  my  nerves,  and 
made  me  sensitive  to  every  jar  and  jostle  and 
discordant  sound.  The  flesh  was  weary,  the 


\ 


spirit  faint,  and  I  was  getting  out  of  humor 
with  'the  bustling,  busy  throng  through  which 
I  had  to  struggle,  when  in  a  fit  of  desperation 
I  tore  my  way  through  the  crowd,  plunged 
into  a  by-lane,  and  after  passing  through 
several  obscure  nooks  and  angles,  emerged  into 
a  quaint  and  quiet  court  with  a  grass-plot  in 
the  centre,  overhung  by  elms,  and  kept  per 
petually  fresh  and  green  by  a  fountain  with  its 
sparkling  jet  of  water.  A  student,  with  book 
in  hand,  was  seated  on  a  stone  bench,  partly 
reading,  partly  meditating  on  the  movements 
of  two  or  three  trim  nursery  maids  with  their 
infant  charges. 

I  was  like  an  Arab,  who  had  suddenly  come 
upon  an  oasis  amid  the  panting  sterility  of  the 
desert.  By  degrees  the  quiet  and  coolness  of 
the  place  soothed  my  nerves  and  refreshed  my 
spirit.  I  pursued  my  walk,  and  came,  hard  by, 
to  a  very  ancient  chapel,  with  a  low-browed 
Saxon  portal  of  massive  and  rich  architecture. 
The  interior  was  circular  and  lofty,  and  lighted 
from  above.  Around  were  monumental  tombs 
of  ancient  date,  on  which  were  extended  the 
marble  effigies  of  warriors  in  armor.  Some  had 
the  hands  devoutly  crossed  upon  the  breast  ; 
others  grasped  the  pommel  of  the  sword, 
menacing  hostility  even  in  the  tomb  ! — while 
the  crossed  legs  of  several  indicated  soldiers  of 


82 


Cbe 


the  Faith  who  had  been  on  crusades  to  the 
Holy  L,and.  I  was,  in  fact,  in  the  chapel  of 
the  Knights  Templars,  strangely  situated  in 
the  very  centre  of  sordid  traffic  ;  and  I  do  not 
know  a  more  impressive  lesson  for  the  man  of 
the  world  than  thus  suddenly  to  turn  aside 
from  the  highway  of  busy  money-seeking  life, 
and  sit  down  among  these  shadowy  sepulchres, 
where  all  is  twilight,  dust,  and  forgetfulness. 

In  a  subsequent  tour  of  observation,  I  en 
countered  another  of  these  relics  of  a  "  fore 
gone  world"  locked  up  in  the  heart  of  the 
city.  I  had  been  wandering  for  some  time 
through  dull  monotonous  streets,  destitute  of 
anything  to  strike  the  eye  or  excite  the  imagi 
nation,  when  I  beheld  before  me  a  Gothic 
gateway  of  mouldering  antiquity.  It  opened 
into  a  spacious  quadrangle  forming  the  court 
yard  of  a  stately  Gothic  pile,  the  portal  of 
which  stood  invitingly  open.  It  was  appar 
ently  a  public  edifice,  and  as  I  was  antiquity 
hunting,  I  ventured  in,  though  with  dubious 
steps.  Meeting  no  one  either  to  oppose  or 
rebuke  my  intrusion,  I  continued  on  until  I 
found  myself  in  a  great  hall,  with  a  lofty 
arched  roof  and  oaken  gallery,  all  of  Gothic 
architecture.  At  one  end  of  the  hall  was  an 
enormous  fireplace,  with  wooden  settles  on 
each  side  ;  at  the  other  end  was  a  raised  plat- 


: 


fcyBt 


london  Bnttquee 


form,  or  dais,  the  seat  of  state,  above  which 
was  the  portrait  of  a  man  in  antique  garb,  with 
a  long  robe,  a  ruff,  and  a  venerable  gray  beard. 

The  whole  establishment  had  an  air  of  mo 
nastic  quiet  and  seclusion,  and  what  gave  it 
a  mysterious  charm,  was,  that  I  had  not  met 
with  a  human  being  since  I  had  passed  the 
threshold.  Encouraged  by  this  loneliness,  I 
seated  myself  in  a  recess  of  a  large  bow- 
window,  which  admitted  a  broad  flood  of  yel 
low  sunshine,  checkered  here  and  there  by 
tints  from  panes  of  colored  glass  ;  while  an 
open  casement  let  in  the  soft  summer  air. 
Here,  leaning  my  head  on  my  hand,  and  my 
arm  on  an  old  oaken  table,  I  indulged  in  a  sort 
of  reverie  about  what  might  have  been  the 
ancient  uses  of  this  edifice.  It  had  evidently 
been  of  monastic  origin  ;  perhaps  one  of  those 
collegiate  establishments  built  of  yore  for  the 
promotion  of  learning,  \vhere  the  patient  monk, 
in  the  ample  solitude  of  the  cloister,  added 
page  to  page  and  volume  to  volume,  emula 
ting  in  the  productions  of  his  brain  the  magni 
tude  of  the  pile  he  inhabited. 

As  I  was  seated  in  this  musing  mood,  a 
small  panelled  door  in  an  arch  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  hall  was  opened,  and  a  number  of 
gray-headed  old  men,  clad  in  long  black  cloaks, 
came  forth  one  by  one  :  proceeding  in  that 


: 
. 


8-1 


Cbe  SfcetcbOBoofc 


manner  through  the  hall,  without  uttering  a 
word,  each  turning  a  pale  face  on  me  as  he 
passed,  and  disappearing  through  a  door  at  the 
lower  end. 

I  was  singularly  struck  with  their  appear 
ance  ;  their  black  cloaks  and  antiquated  air 
comported  with  the  style  of  this  most  vener 
able  and  mysterious  pile.  It  was  as  if  the 
ghosts  of  the  departed  years,  about  which  I 
had  been  musing,  were  passing  in  review 
before  me.  Pleasing  myself  with  such  fancies, 
I  set  out,  in  the  spirit  of  romance,  to  explore 
what  I  pictured  to  myself  a  realm  of  shadows, 
existing  in  the  very  centre  of  substantial 
realities. 

My  ramble  led  me  through  a  labyrinth  of 
interior  courts,  and  corridors,  and  dilapidated 
cloisters,  for  the  main  edifice  had  many  addi 
tions  and  dependencies,  built  at  various  times 
and  in  various  styles  ;  in  one  open  space  a 
number  of  boys,  who  evidently  belonged  to 
the  establishment,  were  at  their  sports  ;  but 
•everywhere  I  observed  those  mysterious  old 
gray  men  in  black  mantles,  sometimes  saun 
tering  alone,  sometimes  conversing  in  groups  ; 
they  appeared  to  be  the  pervading  genii  of  the 
place.  I  now  called  to  mind  what  I  had  read 
of  certain  colleges  in  old  times,  where  judi 
cial  astrology,  geomancy,  necromancy,  and 


XouDon  antiques 


85 


other  forbidden  and  magical  sciences  were 
taught.  Was  this  an  establishment  of  the 
kind,  and  were  these  black-cloaked  old  men 
really  professors  of  the  black  art  ? 

These  surmises  were  passing  through  my 
mind  as  my  eye  glanced  into  a  chamber,  hung 
round  with  all  kinds  of  strange  and  uncouth 
objects  :  implements  of  savage  warfare  ;  strange 
idols  and  stuffed  alligators  ;  bottled  serpents 
and  monsters  decorated  the  mantel-piece  ;  while 
on  a  high  tester  of  an  old-fashioned  bedstead 
grinned  a  human  skull,  flanked  on  each  side 
by  a  dried  cat. 

I  approached  to  regard  more  narrowly  this 
mystic  chamber,  which  seemed  a  fitting  labo 
ratory  for  a  necromancer,  when  I  was  startled 
at  beholding  a  human  countenance  staring  at 
me  from  a  dusky  corner.  It  was  that  of  a 
small,  shrivelled  old  man,  with  thin  cheeks, 
bright  eyes,  and  gray  wiry  projecting  eye 
brows.  I  at  first  doubted  whether  it  were  not 
a  mummy  curiously  preserved,  but  it  moved, 
and  I  saw  that  it  was  alive.  It  was  another 
of  these  black-cloaked  old  men,  and,  as  I 
regarded  his  quaint  physiognomy,  his  obsolete 
garb,  and  the  hideous  and  sinister  objects  by 
which  he  was  surrounded,  I  began  to  persuade 
myself  that  I  had  come  upon  the  arch  mago, 
who  ruled  over  this  magical  fraternity. 


?? 


^c 


Seeing  me  pausing  before  the  door,  he  rose 
and  invited  me  to  enter.  I  obeyed,  with  sin 
gular  hardihood,  for  how  did  I  know  whether 
a  wave  of  his  wand  might  not  metamorphose 
me  into  some  strange  monster,  or  conjure  me 
into  one  of  the  bottles  on  his  mantel-piece  ? 
He  proved,  however,  to  be  anything  but  a 
conjurer,  and  his  simple  garrulity  soon  dis 
pelled  all  the  magic  and  mystery  with  which 
I  had  enveloped  this  antiquated  pile  and  its 
no  less  antiquated  inhabitants. 

It  appeared  that  I  had  made  my  way  into 
the  centre  of  an  ancient  asylum  for  superan 
nuated  tradesmen  and  decayed  householders, 
with  which  was  connected  a  school  for  a  lim 
ited  number  of  boys.  It  was  founded  upwards 
of  two  centuries  since  on  an  old  monastic  es 
tablishment,  and  retained  somewhat  of  the  con 
ventual  air  and  character.  The  shadowy  line 
of  old  men  in  black  mantles  who  had  passed 
before  me  in  the  hall,  and  whom  I  had  elevated 
into  magi,  turned  out  to  be  the  pensioners  re 
turning  from  morning  service  in  the  chapel. 

John  Hallum,  the  little  collector  of  curiosi 
ties,  whom  I  had  made  the  arch  magician,  had 
been  for  six  years  a  resident  of  the  place,  and 
had  decorated  this  final  nestling-place  of  his 
old  age  with  relics  and  rarities  picked  up  in 
the  course  of  his  life.  According  to  his  own 


Xonfcon  antiques 


account  he  had  been  somewhat  of  a  traveller  ; 
having  been  once  in  France,  and  very  near 
making  a  visit  to  Holland.  He  regretted  not 
having  visited  the  latter  country,  "  as  then  he 
might  have  said  he  had  been  there."  He  was 
evidently  a  traveller  of  the  simplest  kind. 

He  was  aristocratical  too  in  his  notions ; 
keeping  aloof,  as  I  found,  from  the  ordinary 
run  of  pensioners.  His  chief  associates  were 
a  blind  man  who  spoke  Latin  and  Greek,  of 
both  which  languages  Hall  urn  was  profoundly 
ignorant,  and  a  broken-down  gentleman  who 
had  run  through  a  fortune  of  forty  thousand 
pounds  left  him  by  his  father,  and  ten  thousand 
pounds,  the  marriage  portion  of  his  wife.  Little 
Hallum  seemed  to  consider  it  an  indubitable 
sign  of  gentle  blood  as  well  as  of  lofty  spirit  to 
be  able  to  squander  such  enormous  sums. 

P.  S.  The  picturesque  remnant  of  old  times 
into  which  I  have  thus  beguiled  the  reader  is 
what  is  called  the  Charter  House,  originally 
the  Chartreuse.  It  was  founded  in  1611,  on 
the  remains  of  an  ancient  convent,  by  Sir 
Thomas  Sutton,  being  one  of  those  noble 
charities  set  on  foot  by  individual  munificence, 
and  kept  up  with  the  quaintness  and  sanctity 
of  ancient  times  amidst  the  modern  changes 
and  innovations  of  London.  Here  eighty 


Sfcetcb^oofc 


broken-down  men,  who  had  seen  better  days, 
are  provided,  in  their  old  age,  with  food, 
clothing,  fuel,  and  a  yearly  allowance  for 
private  expenses.  They  dine  together  as  did 
the  monks  of  old,  in  the  hall  which  had  been 
the  refectory  of  the  original  convent.  At 
tached  to  the  establishment  is  a  school  for 
forty-four  boys. 

Stow,  whose  work  I  have  consulted  on  the 
subject,  speaking  of  the  obligations  of  the 
gray-headed  pensioners,  says  :  '  '  They  are  not 
to  intermeddle  with  any  business  touching  the 
affairs  of  the  hospital,  but  to  attend  only  to  the 
service  of  God,  and  take  thankfully  what  is 
provided  for  them,  without  muttering,  mur 
muring,  or  grudging.  None  to  wear  weapon, 
long  hair,  colored  boots,  spurs  or  colored  shoes, 
feathers  in  their  hats,  or  any  ruffian-like  or  un 
seemly  apparel,  but  such  as  becomes  hospital 
men  to  wrear."  "  And  in  truth,"  adds  Stow, 
*  '  happy  are  they  that  are  so  taken  from  the 
cares  and  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  fixed  in 
so  good  a  place  as  these  old  men  are  ;  having 
nothing  to  care  for,  but  the  good  of  their  souls, 
to  serve  God,  and  to  live  in  brotherly  love." 


For   the  amusement  of  such  as  have  been 
interested  by  the  preceding  sketch,  taken  down 


lonDon  Bntiqucs  89 

from  my  own  observation,  and  who  may  wish 
to  know  a  little  more  about  the  mysteries  of 
London,  I  subjoin  a  modicum  of  local  history, 
put  into  my  hands  by  an  odd-looking  old  gen 
tleman  in  a  small  brown  wig  and  a  snuff-col 
ored  coat,  with  whom  I  became  acquainted 
shortly  after  my  visit  to  the  Charter  House. 
I  confess  I  was  a  little  dubious  at  first,  whether 
it  was  not  one  of  those  apocryphal  tales  often 
passed  off  upon  inquiring  travellers  like  my 
self  ;  and  which  have  brought  our  general  char 
acter  for  veracity  into  such  unmerited  reproach. 
On  making  proper  inquiries,  however,  I  have 
received  the  most  satisfactory  assurances  of  the 
author's  probity  ;  and,  indeed,  have  been  told 
that  he  is  actually  engaged  in  a  full  and  par 
ticular  account  of  the  very  interesting  region 
in  which  he  resides  ;  of  which  the  following 
may  be  considered  merely  as  a  foretaste. 


/ 


- 


OLittle  Britain 

"  What  I  write  is  most  true  ...  I  have  a  whole  booke  of 
cases  lying  by  me  which  if  I  should  sette  foorth,  some  grave 
auntients  (within  the  hearing  of  Bow  bell)  would  be  out  of 
charity  with  me."— NASHE. 

IN  the  centre  of  the   great  city  of  Condon 
lies  a   small  neighborhood,  consisting  of 
a  cluster  of  narrow  streets  and  courts,  of 
very    venerable    and   debilitated    houses, 
which    goes    by    the   name    of    LITTLK 
BRITAIN.     Christ  Church  School  and  St.  Bar 
tholomew's   Hospital  bound   it   on  the  west ; 
Smithfield    and    Long    Lane    on    the  north  ; 
Aldersgate  Street,  like  an  arm  of  the  sea,  di 
vides   it    from   the   eastern   part  of  the  city  ; 
whilst  the  yawning  gulf   of    Bull-and-Mouth 
Street  separates  it  from  Butcher  Lane,  and  the 
regions  of  Newgate.     Over  this  little  territory, 
thus  bounded  and  designated,  the  great  dome 
of  St.  Paul's,  swelling  above  the  intervening 
houses  of  Paternoster  Row,  Amen  Corner,  and 
Ave  Maria  Lane,  looks  down  with  an  air  of 
motherly  protection. 

This   quarter   derives    its    appellation   from 


little  ^Britain 


having  been,  in  ancient  times,  the  residence  of 
the  Dukes  of  Brittany.  As  London  increased, 
however,  rank  and  fashion  rolled  off  to  the 
west,  and  trade  creeping  on  at  their  heels,  took 
possession  of  their  deserted  abodes.  For  some 
time  Little  Britain  became  the  great  mart  of 
learning,  and  was  peopled  by  the  busy  and  pro 
lific  race  of  booksellers  ;  these  also  gradually 
deserted  it,  and,  emigrating  beyond  the  great 
strait  of  Newgate  Street,  settled  down  in  Pater 
noster  Row  and  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  where 
they  continue  to  increase  and  multiply  even  at 
the  present  day. 

But  though  thus  falling  into  decline,  Little 
Britain  still  bears  traces  of  its  former  splendor. 
There  are  several  houses  ready  to  tumble  down, 
the  fronts  of  which  are  magnificently  enriched 
with  old  oaken  carvings  of  hideous  faces,  un 
known  birds,  beasts,  and  fishes  :  and  fruits 
and  flowers  which  it  would  perplex  a  natural 
ist  to  classify.  There  are  also,  in  Aldersgate 
Street,  certain  remains  of  what  were  once 
spacious  and  lordly  family  mansions,  but  which 
have  in  latter  days  been  subdivided  into  several 
tenements.  Here  may  often  be  found  the 
family  of  a  petty  tradesman,  with  its  trumpery 
furniture,  burrowing  among  the  relics  of  an 
tiquated  finery,  in  great  rambling,  time-stained 
apartments,  with  fretted  ceilings,  gilded  cor- 


nices,  and  enormous  marble  fireplaces.  The 
lanes  and  courts  also  contain  many  smaller 
houses,  not  on  so  grand  a  scale,  but,  like  your 
small  ancient  gentry,  sturdily  maintaining  their 
claims  to  equal  antiquity.  These  have  their 
gable  ends  to  the  street ;  great  bow- windows, 
with  diamond  panes  set  in  lead,  grotesque  carv 
ings,  and  low  arched  doorways.* 

In  this  most  venerable  and  sheltered  little 
nest  have  I  passed  several  quiet  years  of  exist 
ence,  comfortably  lodged  in  the  second  floor 
of  one  of  the  smallest  but  oldest  edifices.  My 
sitting-room  is  an  old  wainscoted  chamber, 
with  small  panels,  and  set  off  with  a  miscella 
neous  array  of  furniture.  I  have  a  particular 
respect  for  three  or  four  high-backed  claw- 
footed  chairs,  covered  with  tarnished  brocade, 
which  bear  the  marks  of  having  seen  better 
days,  and  have  doubtless  figured  in  some  of 
the  old  palaces  of  Little  Britain.  They  seem 
to  me  to  keep  together,  and  to  look  down 
with  sovereign  contempt  upon  their  leathern- 
bottomed  neighbors  :  as  I  have  seen  decayed 
gentry  carry  a  high  head  among  the  plebeian 
society  with  which  they  were  reduced  to  asso- 

*  It  is  evident  that  the  author  of  this  interesting 
communication  has  included,  in  his  general  title  of 
Little  Britain,  many  of  those  little  lanes  and  courts 
that  belong  immediately  to  Cloth  Fair. 


Xittlc  Britain 


ciate.  The  whole  front  of  my  sitting-room  is 
taken  up  with  a  bow-window,  on  the  panes 
of  which  are  recorded  the  names  of  previous 
occupants  for  many  generations,  mingled 
with  scraps  of  very  indifferent  gentleman-like 
poetry,  written  in  characters  which  I  can 
scarcely  decipher,  and  which  extol  the  charms 
of  many  a  beauty  of  Little  Britain,  who  has 
long,  long  since  bloomed,  faded,  and  passed 
away.  As  I  am  an  idle  personage,  with  no 
apparent  occupation,  and  pay  my  bill  regularly 
every  week,  I  am  looked  upon  as  the  only  in 
dependent  gentleman  of  the  neighborhood  ; 
and,  being  curious  to  learn  the  internal  state 
of  a  community  so  apparently  shut  up  within 
itself,  I  have  managed  to  work  my  way  into 
all  the  concerns  and  secrets  of  the  place. 

Little  Britain  may  truly  be  called  the 
heart's  core  of  the  city,  the  stronghold  of  true 
John  Bullism.  It  is  a  fragment  of  London  as 
it  was  in  its  better  days,  with  its  antiquated 
folks  and  fashions.  Here  flourish  in  great 
preservation  many  of  the  holiday  games  and 
customs  of  yore.  The  inhabitants  most  reli 
giously  eat  pancakes  on  Shrove  Tuesday,  hot- 
cross-buns  on  Good  Friday,  and  roast  goose  at 
Michaelmas  ;  they  send  love-letters  on  Valen 
tine's  Day,  bum  the  pope  on  the  fifth  of 
November,  and  kiss  all  the  girls  under  the 


mistletoe  at  Christmas.  Roast  beef  and  plum- 
pudding  are  also  held  in  superstitious  venera 
tion,  and  port  and  sherry  maintain  their 
grounds  as  the  only  true  Knglish  wines  ;  all 
others  being  considered  vile  outlandish  bev 
erages. 

Little  Britain  has  its  long  catalogue  of  city 
wonders,  which  its  inhabitants  consider  the 
wonders  of  the  world  ;  such  as  the  great  bell 
of  St.  Paul's,  which  sours  all  the  beer  when  it 
tolls  ;  the  figures  that  strike  the  hours  at  St. 
Dustan's  clock  ;  the  Monument  ;  the  lions  in 
the  Tower  ;  and  the  wooden  giants  in  Guild 
hall.  They  still  believe  in  dreams  arid  for 
tune-telling,  and  an  old  woman  that  lives  in 
Bull-and- Mouth  Street  makes  a  tolerable  sub 
sistence  by  detecting  stolen  goods,  and  promis 
ing  the  girls  good  husbands.  They  are  apt  to 
be  rendered  uncomfortable  by  comets  and 
eclipses  ;  and  if  a  dog  howls  dolefully  at 
night,  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  sure  sign  of  a 
death  in  the  place.  There  are  even  many 
ghost-stories  current,  particularly  concerning 
the  old  mansion-houses  ;  in  several  of  which 
it  is  said  strange  sights  are  sometimes  seen. 
Lords  and  ladies,  the  former  in  full-bottomed 
wigs,  hanging  sleeves,  and  swords,  the  latter 
in  lappets,  stays,  hoops,  and  brocade,  have  been 
seen  walking  up  and  down  the  great  waste 


TLittIc  ^Britain 


»ii 


chambers,  on  moonlight  nights  ;  and  are  sup 
posed  to  be  the  shades  of  the  ancient  proprie 
tors  in  their  court-dresses. 

Little  Britain  has  likewise  its  sages  and  great 
men.  One  of  the  most  important  of  the  for 
mer  is  a  tall,  dry  old  gentleman,  of  the  name 
of  Skryme,  who  keeps  a  small  apothecary's 
shop.  He  has  a  cadaverous  countenance,  full 
of  cavities  and  projections,  with  a  brown  circle 
round  each  eye  like  a  pair  of  horned  spectacles. 
He  is  much  thought  of  by  the  old  women,  who 
consider  him  as  a  kind  of  conjurer,  because  he 
has  two  or  three  stuffed  alligators  hanging  up 
in  his  shop,  and  several  snakes  in  bottles.  He 
is  a  great  reader  of  almanacs  and  newspapers, 
and  is  much  given  to  pore  over  alarming  ac 
counts  of  plots,  conspiracies,  fires,  earthquakes, 
and  volcanic  eruptions,  which  last  phenomena 
he  considers  as  signs  of  the  times.  He  has 
always  some  dismal  tale  of  the  kind  to  deal 
out  to  his  customers  with  their  doses,  and  thus 
at  the  same  time  puts  both  soul  and  body  into 
an  uproar.  He  is  a  great  believer  in  omens 
and  predictions,  and  has  the  prophecies  of 
Robert  Nixon  and  Mother  Shipton  by  heart. 
No  man  can  make  so  much  out  of  an  eclipse, 
or  even  an  unusualty  dark  da}',  and  he  shook 
the  tail  of  the  last  comet  over  the  heads  of  his 
customers  and  disciples  until  they  were  nearly 


"^   i'-V 


96  £be  Sfcetcb*:JBoofc 

frightened  out  of  their  wits.  He  has  lately 
got  hold  of  a  popular  legend  or  prophecy,  on 
which  he  has  been  unusually  eloquent.  There 
has  been  a  saying  current  among  the  ancient 
sibyls  who  treasure  up  these  things,  that  when 
the  grasshopper  on  the  top  of  the  Exchange 
shook  hands  with  the  dragon  on  the  top  of 
Bow  Church  steeple  fearful  events  would  take 
place.  This  strange  conjunction,  it  seems,  has 
as  strangely  come  to  pass.  The  same  architect 
has  been  engaged  lately  on  the  repairs  of  the 
cupola  of  the  Exchange,  and  the  steeple  of 
Bow  Church  ;  and,  fearful  to  relate,  the  dragon 
and  the  grasshopper  actually  lie,  cheek  by  jole, 
in  the  yard  of  his  workshop. 

"Others,"  as  Mr.  Skryme  is  accustomed  to 
say,  "  may  go  star-gazing,  and  look  for  con 
junctions  in  the  heavens,  but  here  is  a  con 
junction  on  the  earth,  near  at  home,  and  under 
our  own  eyes,  which  surpasses  all  the  signs 
and  calculations  of  the  astrologers."  Since 
these  portentous  weathercocks  have  thus  laid 
their  heads  together,  wonderful  events  had 
already  occurred.  The  good  old  king,  not 
withstanding  that  he  had  lived  eighty-two 
years,  had  all  at  once  given  up  the  ghost  ; 
another  king  had  mounted  the  throne  ;  a  royal 
duke  had  died  suddenly, — another,  in  France, 
had  been  murdered  ;  there  had  been  radical 


\ 


(3 


little  Britain 


97 


meetings  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom  ;  the 
bloody  scenes  at  Manchester ;  the  great  plot 
in  Cato  Street ; — and,  above  all,  the  queen  had 
returned  to  England  !  All  these  sinister  events 
are  recounted  by  Mr.  Skryme,  with  a  mysteri 
ous  look,  and  a  dismal  shake  of  the  head  ;  and 
being  taken  with  his  drugs,  and  associated  in 
the  minds  of  his  auditors  with  stuffed  sea- 
monsters,  bottled  serpents,  and  his  own  visage, 
which  is  a  title-page  of  tribulation,  they  have 
spread  great  gloom  through  the  minds  of  the 
people  of  Little  Britain.  They  shake  their 
heads  whenever  they  go  by  Bow  Church,  and 
observe,  that  they  never  expected  any  good  to 
come  of  taking  down  that  steeple,  which  in  old 
times  told  nothing  but  glad  tidings,  as  the  his 
tory  of  Whittington  and  his  Cat  bears  witness. 
The  rival  oracle  of  Little  Britain  is  a  sub 
stantial  cheesemonger,  who  lives  in  a  fragment 
of  one  of  the  old  family  mansions,  and  is  as 
magnificently  lodged  as  a  round-bellied  mite  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  his  own  Cheshires.  In 
deed,  he  is  a  man  of  no  little  standing  and 
importance  ;  and  his  renown  extends  through 
Huggin  Lane,  and  Lad  Lane,  and  even  unto 
Aldermanbury.  His  opinion  is  very  much 
taken  in  affairs  of  state,  having  read  the  Sun 
day  papers  for  the  last  half  century,  together 
with  the  Gentleman1  s  Magazine,  Rapin's  His- 


VOL.   II. — 7 


tory    of    England,    and     the    Naval    Chroni 
cle.      His    head    is     stored    with     invaluable 
maxims  which    have  borne  the  test  of   time 
and  use  for  centuries.     It  is  his  firm  opinion 
that  "it   is  a  moral  impossible,"  so  long  as 
England  is  true  to  herself,  that  anything  can 
shake  her;    and  he  has  much  to  say  on  the 
subject  of  the  national  debt ;  which,  somehow 
or  other,  he  proves  to  be  a  great  national  bul 
wark  and  blessing.      He  passed   the   greater 
part  of  his  life  in  the  purlieus  of  Little  Britain, 
until  of  late  years,  when,  having  become  rich, 
and  grown  into  the  dignity  of  a  Sunday  cane, 
he  begins   to  take  his  pleasure  and    see   the 
world.     He  has  therefore  made  several  excur 
sions    to    Hampstead,     Highgate,    and   other 
neighboring  towns,  where  he  has  passed  whole 
afternoons  in  looking  back  upon  the  metropolis 
through  a  telescope,  and  endeavoring  to  descry 
the  steeple    of    St.    Bartholomew's.      Not   a 
stage-coachman  of  Bull-and-Mouth  Street  but 
touches  his  hat  as  he  passes  ;  and  he  is  con 
sidered  quite  a  patron  at  the  coach-office   of 
the  Goose  and  Gridiron,   St.   Paul's  Church 
yard.     His  family  have  been  very  urgent  for 
him  to  make  an  expedition  to  Margate,  but  he 
has  great  doubts  of  those  new  gimcracks,  the 
steamboats,    and    indeed    thinks   himself   too 
advanced  in  life  to  undertake  sea-voyages. 


Xittlc  Britain 


99 


Little  Britain  has  occasionally  its  factions 
and  divisions,  and  party  spirit  ran  very  high 
at  one  time  in  consequence  of  two  rival  Burial 
Societies  being  set  up  in  the  place.  One  held 
its  meeting  at  the  Swan  and  Horse  Shoe,  and 
was  patronized  by  the  cheesemonger  ;  the 
other  at  the  Cock  and  Crown,  under  the  aus 
pices  of  the  apothecary  :  it  is  needless  to  say 
that  the  latter  was  the  most  flourishing.  I 
have  passed  an  evening  or  two  at  each,  and 
have  acquired  much  valuable  information,  as  to 
the  best  mode  of  being  buried,  the  compara 
tive  merits  of  churchyards,  together  with 
divers  hints  on  the  subject  of  patent-iron  cof 
fins.  I  have  heard  the  question  discussed  in 
all  its  bearings  as  to  the  legality  of  prohibiting 
the  latter  on  account  of  their  durability.  The 
feuds  occasioned  by  these  societies  have  happily 
died  of  late  ;  but  they  were  for  a  long  time 
prevailing  themes  of  controversy,  the  people 
of  Little  Britain  being  extremely  solicitous  of 
funeral  honors  and  of  lying  comfortably  in 
their  graves. 

Beside  these  two  funeral  societies  there  is  a 
third  of  quite  a  different  cast,  which  tends  to 
throw  the  sunshine  of  good-humor  over  the 
whole  neighborhood.  It  meets  once  a  week 
at  a  little  old-fashioned  house,  kept  by  a  jolly 
publican  of  the  name  of  Wagstaff,  and  bearing 


' 


•         ; 


100 


for  insignia  a  resplendent  half-moon,  with  a 
most   seductive  bunch   of   grapes.      The   old 
edifice  is  covered  with  inscriptions  to  catch  the 
eye  of  the  thirsty  wayfarer  ;  such  as  ' '  Truman, 
Hanbury,  and  Co.'s  Entire,"    "Wine,  Rum, 
and  Brandy  Vaults,"    "Old  Tom,  Rum  and 
Compounds,"   etc.     This  indeed  has  been  a 
temple   of   Bacchus   and    Momus  from    time 
immemorial.     It  has  always  been  in  the  family 
of  the  Wagstaffs,  so  that  its  history  is  tolerably 
preserved  by    the   present  landlord.     It   was 
much  frequented  by  the  gallants  and  cavalieros 
of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  was  looked  into 
now   and   then    by   the   wits   of  Charles  the 
Second's  day.     But  what  Wagstaff  principally 
prides  himself  upon  is,  that  Henry  the  Eight, 
in   one   of  his  nocturnal   rambles,   broke  the 
head   of  one  of  his  ancestors  with  his  famous 
walking-staff.     This  however  is  considered  as 
rather  a  dubious  and  vain-glorious  boast  of  the 

landlord. 

The  club  which  now  holds  its  weekly  sessions 
here  goes  by  the  name  of  "The  Roaring  Lads 
of  Little  Britain."  They  abound  in  old 
catches,  glees,  and  choice  stories,  that  are 
traditional  in  the  place,  and  not  to  be  met  with 
in  any  other  part  of  the  metropolis.  There  is 
a  madcap  undertaker  who  is  inimitable  at  a 
merry  song;  but  the  life  of  the  club,  and 


Xittlc  Britain 


indeed  the  prime  wit  of  Little  Britain,  is  bully 
Wagstaff  himself.  His  ancestors  were  all 
wags  before  him,  and  he  has  inherited  with 
the  inn  a  large  stock  of  songs  and  jokes,  which 
go  with  it  from  generation  to  generation  as 
heirlooms.  He  is  a  dapper  little  fellow,  with 
bandy  legs  and  pot-belly,  a  red  face,  with  a 
moist  merry  eye,  and  a  little  shock  of  gray 
hair  behind.  At  the  opening  of  every  club- 
night  he  is  called  in  to  sing  his  "  Confession 
of  Faith,"  which  is  the  famous  old  drinking- 
trowl  from  "Gammer  Gurton's  Needle." 
He  sings  it,  to  be  sure,  with  many  variations, 
as  he  received  it  from  his  father's  lips  ;  for  it 
had  been  a  standing  favorite  at  the  Half-  Moon 
and  Bunch  of  Grapes  ever  since  it  was  written  ; 
nay,  he  affirms  that  his  predecessors  have  often 
had  the  honor  of  singing  it  before  the  nobility 
and  gentry  at  Christmas  mummeries,  when 
Little  Britain  was  in  all  its  glory.* 


As  mine  host  of  the  Half-Moon's  "  Confession  of 
Faith  "  may  not  be  familiar  to  the  majority  of  readers, 
and  as  it  is  a  specimen  of  the  current  songs  of  Little 
Britain,  I  subjoin  it  in  its  original  orthography.  I 
would  observe,  that  the  whole  club  always  join  in 
the  chorus  with  a  fearful  thumping  on  the  table  and 
clattering  of  pewter  pots. 

"  I  cannot  eate  but  lytle  meate, 
My  stomacke  is  not  good, 


: ,  -; 


Ube  Sfcetcb^ffioofc 


It  would  do  one's  heart  good  to  hear,  on  a 
club-night,  the  shouts  of  merriment,  the 
snatches  of  song,  and  now  and  then  the  choral 
bursts  of  half  a  dozen  discordant  voices,  which 
issue  from  this  jovial  mansion.  At  such  times 
the  street  is  lined  with  listeners,  who  enjoy  a 
delight  equal  to  that  of  gazing  into  a  confec 
tioner's  window,  or  snuffing  up  the  steams  of 
a  cookshop. 

There  are  two  annual  events  which  produce 
great  stir  and  sensation  in  Little  Britain  ;  these 
are  St.  Bartholomew's  fair,  and  the  Lord 

But  sure  I  thinke  that  I  can  drinke 

With  him  that  weares  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a  colde, 
I  stuff  my  skyn  so  full  within, 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus.  Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Booth  foote  and  hand  go  colde. 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  ynoughe 

Whether  it  be  new  or  olde. 

"  I  have  no  rost,  but  a  nut  brawne  toste, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fyre  ; 
A  little  breade  shall  do  me  steade, 

Much  breade  I  not  desyre. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  nor  winde,  I  trowe, 

Can  hurte  mee,  if  I  wolde, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throwly  lapt 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus.  Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 


little  Britain 


103 


4  m 


Mayor's  day.  During  the  time  of  the  fair, 
which  is  held  in  the  adjoining  regions  of 
Smithfield,  there  is  nothing  going  on  but  gos 
siping  and  gadding  about.  The  late  quiet 
streets  of  Little  Britain  are  overrun  with  an 
irruption  of  strange  figures  and  faces  ;  every 
tavern  is  a  scene  of  rout  and  revel.  The  fiddle 
and  song  are  heard  from  the  tap-room,  morning, 
noon,  and  night;  and  at  each  window  may  be 
seen  some  group  of  boon  companions,  with 
half-shut  eyes,  hats  on  one  side,  pipe  in  mouth, 
and  tankard  in  hand,  fondling,  and  prosing, 

"  And  Tyb  my  wife,  that,  as  her  lyfe, 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 
Full  oft  dry  tikes  shee,  tyll  ye  may  see, 

The  teares  run  downe  her  cheeke. 
Then  doth  she  trowle  to  me  the  bowle, 

Even  as  a  mault-worme  sholde, 
And  sayth,  sweete  harte,  I  took  my  parte 

Of  thisjoly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus.  Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

"  Now   let   them   drynke,   tyll   they  nod  and 

winke, 

Even  as  goode  fellows  sholde  doe, 
They  shall  not  mysse  to  have  the  blisse, 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to  ; 
And  all  poore  soules  that  have  scowred  bowles, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolde, 
God  save  the  lyves  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  yonge  or  olde. 
Chorus.  Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc." 


Cbe  SfcetcbOBoofc 


and  singing  maudlin  songs  over  their  liquor. 
Even  the  sober  decorum  of  private  families, 
which  I  must  say  is  rigidly  kept  up  at  other 
times  among  my  neighbors,  is  no  proof  against 
this  Saturnalia.  There  is  no  .such  thing  as 
keeping  maid-servants  within  doors.  Their 
brains  are  absolutely  set  madding  with  Punch 
and  the  Puppet-Show ;  the  Flying  Horses  ; 
Signior  Polito,  the  Fire-Eater ;  the  celebrated 
Mr.  Paap,  and  the  Irish  Giant.  The  children, 
too,  lavish  all  their  holiday  money  in  toys  and 
gilt  gingerbread,  and  fill  the  house  with  the 
Lilliputian  din  of  drums,  trumpets,  and  penny- 
whistles. 

But  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  is  the  great  anni 
versary.  The  Lord  Mayor  is  looked  up  to  by 
the  inhabitants  of  Little  Britain  as  the  greatest 
potentate  upon  earth  ;  his  gilt  coach  with  six 
horses  as  the  summit  of  human  splendor  ;  and 
his  procession,  with  all  the  Sheriffs  and  Alder 
men  in  his  train,  as  the  grandest  of  earthly 
pageants.  How  they  exult  in  the  idea,  that 
the  King  himself  dare  not  enter  the  city,  with 
out  first  knocking  at  the  gate  of  Temple  Bar, 
and  asking  permission  of  the  Lord  Mayor : 
for  if  he  did,  heaven  and  earth  !  there  is  no 
knowing  what  might  be  the  consequence. 
The  man  in  armor  who  rides  before  the  Lord 
Mayor,  and  is  the  city  champion,  has  orders  to 


little  JBritain 


cut  down  everybody  that  offends  against  the 
dignity  of  the  city  ;  and  then  there  is  the  little 
man  with  the  velvet  porringer  on  his  head, 
who  sits  at  the  window  of  the  stage-coach,  and 
holds  the  city  sword,  as  long  as  a  pike-staff— 
Odd's  blood  !  If  he  once  draws  that  sword, 
Majesty  itself  is  not  safe. 

Under  the  protection  of  this  mighty  poten 
tate,  therefore,  the  good  people  of  Little  Britain 
sleep  in  peace.  Temple  Bar  is  an  effectual  bar 
rier  against  all  interior  foes  ;  and  as  to  foreign 
invasion,  the  Lord  Mayor  has  but  to  throw 
himself  into  the  Tower,  call  in  the  train-bands, 
and  put  the  standing  army  of  Beef-eaters  un 
der  arms,  and  he  may  bid  defiance  to  the 
world  ! 

Thus  wrapt  up  in  its  own  concerns,  its  own 
habits,  and  its  own  opinions,  Little  Britain 
has  long  flourished  as  a  sound  heart  to  this 
great  fungous  metropolis.  I  have  pleased 
myself  with  considering  it  as  a  chosen  spot, 
where  the  principles  of  sturdy  John  Bullism 
were  garnered  up,  like  seed-corn,  to  renew  the 
national  character,  when  it  had  run  to  waste 
and  degeneracy.  I  have  rejoiced  also  in  the 
general  spirit  of  harmony  that  prevailed 
throughout  it ;  for  though  there  might  now 
and  then  be  a  few  clashes  of  opinion  between 
the  adherents  of  the  cheesemonger  and  the 


105  ^ 

x-     ;.' 


apothecary,  and  an  occasional  feud  between  the 
burial  societies,  yet  these  were  but  transient 
clouds,  and  soon  passed  away.  The  neighbors 
met  with  good-will,  parted  with  a  shake  of  the 
hand,  and  never  abused  each  other  except  be 
hind  their  backs. 

I  could  give  rare  descriptions  of  snug  junk 
eting  parties  at  which  I  have  been  present ; 
where  wre  played  at  All-Fours,  Pope-Joan, 
Tom-come-tickle-me,  and  other  choice  old 
games  ;  and  where  we  sometimes  had  a  good 
old  English  country  dance  to  the  tune  of  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley.  Once  a  year  also  the 
neighbors  would  gather  together,  and  go  on  a 
gypsy  party  to  Epping  Forest.  It  would  have 
done  any  man's  heart  good  to  see  the  merri 
ment  that  took  place  here  as  we  banqueted  on 
the  grass  under  the  trees.  How  we  made  the 
woods  ring  with  bursts  of  laughter  at  the  songs 
of  little  WagstafF  and  the  merry  undertaker  ! 
After  dinner,  too,  the  young  folks  would  play 
at  blind-man' s-buff  and  hide-and-seek  ;  and  it 
was  amusing  to  see  them  tangled  among  the 
briers,  and  to  hear  a  fine  romping  girl  now  and 
then  squeak  from  among  the  bushes.  The 
elder  folks  would  gather  round  the  cheese 
monger  and  the  apothecary,  to  hear  them  talk 
politics  ;  for  they  generally  brought  out  a  news 
paper  in  their  pockets,  to  pass  away  time  in  the 


Play  I  fid 


m 


little  Britain 


107 


country.  They  would  now  and  then,  to  be 
sure,  get  a  little  warm  in  argument ;  but  their 
disputes  were  always  adjusted  by  reference  to 
a  worthy  old  umbrella-maker  in  a  double  chin, 
who,  never  exactly  comprehending  the  sub 
ject,  managed  somehow  or  other  to  decide  in 
favor  of  both  parties. 

All  empires,  however,  says  some  philosopher 
or  historian,  are  doomed  to  changes  and  revo 
lutions.  Luxury  and  innovation  creep  in ; 
factions  arise  ;  and  families  now  and  then 
spring  up,  whose  ambition  and  intrigues 
throw  the  whole  system  into  confusion.  Thus 
in  latter  days  has  the  tranquillity  of  Little 
Britain  been  grievously  disturbed,  and  its 
golden  simplicity  of  manners  threatened  with 
total  subversion,  by  the  aspiring  family  of  a 
retired  butcher. 

The  family  of  the  Lambs  had  long  been 
among  the  most  thriving  and  popular  in  the 
neighborhood  ;  the  Miss  Lambs  were  the  belles 
of  Little  Britain,  and  everybody  was  pleased 
when  Old  Lamb  had  made  money  enough  to 
shut  up  shop,  and  put  his  name  on  a  brass 
plate  on  his  door.  In  an  evil  hour,  however, 
one  of  the  Miss  Lambs  had  the  honor  of  being 
a  lady  in  attendance  on  the  Lady  Mayoress,  at 
her  great  annual  ball,  on  which  occasion  she 
wore  three  towering  ostrich  feathers  on  her 


« 


io8 


Cbe 


head.  The  family  never  got  over  it ;  they 
were  immediately  smitten  with  a  passion  for 
high  life  ;  set  up  a  one-hcrse  carriage,  put  a  bit 
of  old  lace  round  the  errand-boy's  hat,  and  have 
been  the  talk  and  detestation  of  the  whole 
neighborhood  ever  since.  They  could  no 
longer  be  induced  to  play  at  Pope-Joan  or 
blind-man's-buff ;  they  could  endure  no  dances 
but  quadrilles,  which  nobody  had  ever  heard  of 
in  Little  Britain  ;  and  they  took  to  reading  nov 
els,  talking  bad  French,  and  playing  upon  the 
piano.  Their  brother,  too,  who  had  been  ar 
ticled  to  an  attorney,  set  up  for  a  dandy  and 
a  critic,  characters  hitherto  unknown  in  these 
parts  ;  and  he  confounded  the  worthy  folks 
exceedingly  by  talking  about  Kean,  the  opera, 
and  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

What  was  still  worse,  the  Lambs  gave  a 
grand  ball,  to  which  they  neglected  to  invite 
any  of  their  old  neighbors  ;  but  they  had  a 
great  deal  of  genteel  company  from  Theobald's 
Road,  Red-Lion  Square,  and  other  parts  tow 
ards  the  west.  There  were  several  beaux  of 
their  brother's  acquaintance  from  Gray's  Inn 
Lane  and  Hatton  Garden  ;  and  not  less  than 
three  Aldermen's  ladies  with  their  daughters. 
This  was  not  to  be  forgotten  or  forgiven.  All 
Little  Britain  was  in  an  uproar  with  the 
smacking  of  whips,  the  lashing  of  miserable 


Xittlc  JBritain 


horses,  and  the  rattling  and  the  jingling  of 
hackney  coaches.  The  gossips  of  the  neigh 
borhood  might  be  seen  popping  their  nightcaps 
out  at  every  window,  watching  the  crazy  vehi 
cles  rumble  by  ;  and  there  was  a  knot  of  viru 
lent  old  cronies,  that  kept  a  lookout  from  a 
house  just  opposite  the  retired  butcher's,  and 
scanned  and  criticised  every  one  that  knocked 
at  the  door. 

This  dance  was  a  cause  of  almost  open  war, 
and  the  whole  neighborhood  declared  they 
would  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  the  Lambs. 
It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Lamb,  when  she  had  no 
engagements  with  her  quality  acquaintance, 
would  give  little  humdrum  tea -junketings  to 
some  of  her  old  cronies,  "  quite, "  as  she  would 
say,  "in  a  friendly  way"  ;  and  it  is  equally 
true  that  her  invitations  were  always  accepted, 
in  spite  of  all  previous  vows  to  the  contrary. 
Nay,  the  good  ladies  would  sit  and  be  delighted 
with  the  music  of  the  Miss  Lambs,  who  would 
condescend  to  strum  an  Irish  melody  for  them 
on  the  piano  ;  and  they  would  listen  with  won 
derful  interest  to  Mrs.  Lamb's  anecdotes  of 
Alderman  Plunket's  family,  of  Portsokenward, 
and  the  Miss  Timberlakes,  the  rich  heiresses 
of  Crutched-Friars ;  but  then  they  relieved 
their  consciences,  and  averted  the  reproaches 
of  their  confederates,  by  canvassing  at  the  next 


gossiping  convocation  everything  that  had 
passed,  and  pulling  the  Lambs  and  their  rout 
all  to  pieces. 

The  only  one  of  the  family  that  could  not  be 
made  fashionable  was  the  retired  butcher  him 
self.  Honest  Lamb,  in  spite  of  the  meekness 
of  his  name,  was  a  rough,  hearty  old  fellow, 
with  the  voice  of  a  lion,  a  head  of  black  hair 
like  a  shoe-brush,  and  a  broad  face  mottled 
like  his  own  beef.  It  was  in  vain  that  the 
daughters  always  spoke  of  him  as  ' '  the  old 
gentleman,"  addressed  him  as  "papa,"  in 
tones  of  infinite  softness,  and  endeavored  to 
coax  him  into  a  dressing-gown  and  slippers, 
and  other  gentlemanly  habits.  Do  what  they 
might,  there  was  no  keeping  down  the  butcher. 
His  sturdy  nature  would  break  through  all 
their  glozings.  He  had  a  hearty  vulgar  good- 
humor  that  was  irrepressible.  His  very  jokes 
made  his  sensitive  daughters  shudder  ;  and  he 
persisted  in  wearing  his  blue  cotton  coat  of  a 
morning,  dining  at  two  o'clock,  and  having  a 
"  bit  of  sausage  with  his  tea." 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  share  the  un 
popularity  of  his  family.  He  found  his  old 
comrades  gradually  growing  cold  and  civil  to 
him  ;  no  longer  laughing  at  his  jokes  ;  and 
now  and  then  throwing  out  a  fling  at  ' '  some 
people,"  and  a  hint  about  "  quality  binding." 


Xtttlc  Britain 


This  both  nettled  and  perplexed  the  honest 
butcher  ;  and  his  wife  and  daughters,  with  the 
consummate  policy  of  the  shrewder  sex,  taking 
advantage  of  the  circumstance,  at  length  pre 
vailed  upon  him  to  give  up  his  afternoon's 
pipe  and  tankard  at  WagstafFs  ;  to  sit  after 
dinner  by  himself,  and  take  his  pint  of  port— a 
liquor  he  detested — and  to  nod  in  his  chair  in 
solitary  and  dismal  gentility. 

The  Miss  Lambs  might  now  be  seen  flaunt 
ing  along  the  streets  in  French  bonnets,  with 
unknown  beaux  ;  and  talking  and  laughing  so 
loud  that  it  distressed  the  nerves  of  every  good 
lady  within  hearing.  They  even  went  so  far 
as  to  attempt  patronage,  and  actually  induced 
a  French  dancing-master  to  set  up  in  the 
neighborhood  ;  but  the  worthy  folks  of  Little 
Britain  took  fire  at  it,  and  did  so  persecute  the 
poor  little  Gaul,  that  he  was  fain  to  pack  up 
fiddle  and  dancing-pumps,  and  decamp  with 
such  precipitation,  that  he  absolutely  forgot  to 
pay  for  his  lodgings. 

I  had  flattered  myself,  at  first,  with  the  idea 
that  all  this  fiery  indignation  on  the  part  of  the 
community  was  merely  the  overflowing  of  their 
zeal  for  good  old  English  manners,  and  their 
horror  of  innovation ;  and  I  applauded  the 
silent  contempt  they  were  so  vociferous  in  ex 
pressing,  for  upstart  pride,  French  fashions, 


tf> 


Sfeetcb^JBoofc 


and4,the  Miss  Lambs.  But  I  grieve  to  say  that 
I  soon  perceived  the  infection  had  taken  hold  ; 
and  that  my  neighbors,  after  condemning, 
were  beginning  to  follow  their  example.  I 
overheard  my  landlady  importuning  her  hus 
band  to  let  their  daughters  have  one  quarter  at 
French  and  music,  and  that  they  might  take  a 
few  lessons  in  quadrille.  I  even  saw,  in  the 
course  of  a  few  Sundays,  no  less  than  five 
French  bonnets,  precisely  like  those  of  the 
Miss  Lambs,  parading  about  Little  Britain. 

I  still  had  my  hopes  that  all  this  folly  would 
gradually  die  away  ;  that  the  Lambs  might 
move  out  of  the  neighborhood  ;  might  die,  or 
might  run  away  with  attorneys'  apprentices  ; 
and  that  quiet  and  simplicity  might  be  again 
restored  to  the  community.  But  unluckily  a 
rival  power  arose.  An  opulent  oilman  died, 
and  left  a  widow  with  a  large  jointure  and  a 
family  of  buxom  daughters.  The  young  ladies 
had  long  been  repining  in  secret  at  the  parsi 
mony  of  a  prudent  father,  which  kept  down  all 
their  elegant  aspirings.  Their  ambition,  being 
now  no  longer  restrained,  broke  out  into  a  blaze, 
and  they  openly  took  the  field  against  the 
family  of  the  butcher.  It  is  true  that  the 
Lambs,  having  had  the  first  start,  had  natu 
rally  an  advantage  of  them  in  the  fashionable 


Cl, 


Xittlc  JGritam 


career.  They  could  speak  a  little  bad  French, 
play  the  piano,  dance  quadrilles,  and  had 
formed  high  acquaintances  ;  but  the  Trotters 
were  not  to  be  distanced.  When  the  Lambs 
appeared  with  two  feathers  in  their  hats,  the 
Miss  Trotters  mounted  four,  and  of  twice  as 
fine  colors.  If  the  Lambs  gave  a  dance,  the 
Trotters  were  sure  not  to  be  behindhand  ;  and 
though  they  might  not  boast  of  as  good  com 
pany,  yet  they  had  double  the  number,  and 
were  twice  as  merry. 

The  whole  community  has  at  length  divided 
itself  into  fashionable  factions,  under  the  ban 
ners  of  these  two  families.  The  old  games  of 
Pope-Joan  and  Tom-come-tickle-me  are  entirely 
discarded  ;  there  is  no  such  thing  as  getting  up 
an  honest  country-dance  ;  and  on  my  attempt 
ing  to  kiss  a  young  lady  under  the  mistletoe 
last  Christmas,  I  was  indignantly  repulsed  ;  the 
Miss  Lambs  having  pronounced  it  "shocking 
vulgar."  Bitter  rivalry  has  also  broken  out  as 
to  the  most  fashionable  part  of  Little  Britain  ; 
the  Lambs  standing  up  for  the  dignity  of  Cross- 
Keys  Square,  and  the  Trotters  for  the  vicinity 
of  St.  Bartholomew's. 

Thus  is  this  little  territory  torn  by  factions 
and  internal  dissensions,  like  the  great  empire 
whose  name  it  bears;  and  what  will  be  the 

VOL.  II.— 8 


result  would  puzzle  the  apothecary  himself, 
with  all  his  talent  at  prognostics,  to  deter 
mine  ;  though  I  apprehend  that  it  will  termi 
nate  in  the  total  downfall  of  genuine  John 
Bullisni. 

The  immediate  effects  are  extremely  unpleas 
ant  to  me.  Being  a  single  man,  and,  as  I  ob 
served  before,  rather  an  idle  good-for-nothing 
personage,  I  have  been  considered  the  only 
gentleman  by  profession  in  the  place.  I  stand 
therefore  in  high  favor  with  both  parties,  and 
have  to  hear  all  their  cabinet  councils  and 
mutual  backbitings.  As  I  am  too  civil  not  to 
agree  with  the  ladies  on  all  occasions,  I  have 
committed  myself  most  horribly  with  both 
parties,  by  abusing  their  opponents.  I  might 
manage  to  reconcile  this  to  my  conscience, 
which  is  a  truly  accommodating  one,  but  I 
cannot  to  my  apprehension — if  the  Lambs  and 
Trotters  ever  come  to  a  reconciliation,  and 
compare  notes,  I  am  ruined  ! 

I  have  determined,  therefore,  to  beat  a  retreat 
in  time,  and  am  actually  looking  out  for  some 
other  nest  in  this  great  city,  where  old  English 
manners  are  still  kept  up  ;  where  French  is 
neither  eaten,  drunk,  danced,  nor  spoken  ;  and 
where  there  are  no  fashionable  families  of  re 
tired  tradesmen.  This  found,  I  will,  like  a 
veteran  rat,  hasten  away  before  I  have  an  old 


house  about  my  ears  ;  bid  a  long,  though  a 
sorrowful  adieu  to  my  present  abode,  and  leave 
the  rival  factions  of  the  Lambs  and  the  Trot 
ters  to  divide  the  distracted  empire  of  LITTLE 
BRITAIN. 


Xittlc  .tOritain 


Stratforfcon^Hvon 


Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 

Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakspeare  would  dream 

The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed, 

For  hallow'd  the  turf  is  which  pillow'd  his  head. 

GARRICK. 


O  a  homeless  man,  who 
has    no    spot   on    this 
wide  world  which  he 
can  truly  call  his  own, 
there  is  a  momentary 
feeling  of  something 
^     like  independence 
and  territorial  conse 
quence,  when,  after  a 
weary  day's  travel,  he 
kicks   off  his   boots, 

thrusts  his  feet  into  slippers,  and  stretches 
himself  before  an  inn  fire.  Let  the  world  go 
as  it  may  ;  let  kingdoms  rise  or  fall,  so  long  as 
he  has  the  wherewithal  to  pay  his  bill,  he  is, 
for  the  time  being,  the  very  monarch  of  all  he 
surveys.  The  arm-chair  is  his  throne,  the 
poker  his  sceptre,  and  the  little  parlor,  some 


"7 


twelve  feet  square,  his  undisputed  empire.  It 
is  a  morsel  of  certainty,  snatched  from  the 
midst  of  the  uncertainties  of  life  ;  it  is  a  sunny 
moment  gleaming  out  kindly  on  a  cloudy  day  ; 
and  he  who  has  advanced  some  way  on  a  pil 
grimage  of  existence,  knows  the  importance 
of  husbanding  even  morsels  and  moments  of 
enjoyment.  "Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in 
mine  inn?"  thought  I,  as  I  gave  the  fire  a 
stir,  lolled  back  in  my  elbow-chair,  and  cast  a 
complacent  look  about  the  little  parlor  of  the 
Red  Horse,  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

The  words  of  sweet  Shakspeare  were  just 
passing  through  my  mind  as  the  clock  struck 
midnight  from  the  tower  of  the  church  in 
which  he  lies  buried.  There  was  a  gentle  tap 
at  the  door,  and  a  pretty  chambermaid,  put 
ting  in  her  smiling  face,  inquired,  with  a  hesi 
tating  air,  whether  I  had  rung.  I  understood 
it  as  a  modest  hint  that  it  was  time  to  retire. 
My  dream  of  absolute  dominion  was  at  an  end  ; 
so  abdicating  my  throne,  like  a  prudent  poten 
tate,  to  avoid  being  deposed,  and  putting  the 
Stratford  Guide-Book  under  my  arm,  as  a  pil 
low  companion,  I  went  to  bed,  and  dreamt  all 
night  of  Shakspeare,  the  jubilee,  and  David 
Garrick. 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quick 
ening  mornings  which  we  sometimes  have  in 


LV> 


118 


Cbe  Sfeetcb^JBoofc 


early  spring  ;  for  it  was  about  the  middle  of 
March.  The  chills  of  a  long  winter  had  sud 
denly  given  way  ;  the  north  wind  had  spent  its 
last  gasp  ;  and  a  mild  air  came  stealing  from 
the  west,  breathing  the  breath  of  life  into 
nature,  and  wooing  every  bud  and  flower  to 
burst  forth  into  fragrance  and  beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  pilgrim 
age.  My  first  visit  was  to  the  house  where 
Shakspeare  was  born,  and  where,  according  to 
tradition,  he  was  brought  up  to  his  father's 
craft  of  wool-combing.  It  is  a  small,  mean- 
looking  edifice  of  wood  and  plaster,  a  true 
nestling-place  of  genius,  which  seems  to  de 
light  in  hatching  its  offspring  in  by-corners. 
The  walls  of  its  squalid  chambers  are  covered 
with  names  and  inscriptions  in  every  language, 
by  pilgrims  of  all  nations,  ranks,  and  condi 
tions,  from  the  prince  to  the  peasant ;  and 
present  a  simple,  but  striking  instance  of  the 
spontaneous  and  universal  homage  of  mankind 
to  the  great  poet  of  nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old  lady, 
in  a  frosty  red  face,  lighted  up  by  a  cold  blue 
anxious  eye,  and  garnished  with  artificial  locks 
of  flaxen  hair,  curling  from  under  an  exceed 
ingly  dirty  cap.  She  was  peculiarly  assiduous 
in  exhibiting  the  relics  with  which  this,  like  all 
other  celebrated  shrines,  abounds.  There  was 


the  shattered  stock  of  the  very  matchlock  with 
which  Shakspeare  shot  the  deer,  on  his  poach 
ing  exploits.  There,  too,  was  his  tobacco-box  ; 
which  proves  that  he  was  a  rival  smoker  of 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  ;  the  sword  also  with 
which  he  played  Hamlet ;  and  the  identical 
lantern  with  which  Friar  Laurence  discovered 
Romeo  and  Juliet  at  the  tomb  !  There  was 
an  ample  supply  also  of  Shakspeare' s  mul 
berry-tree,  which  seems  to  have  as  extraordi 
nary  powers  of  self-multiplication  as  the  wood 
of  the  true  cross  ;  of  which  there  is  enough 
extant  to  build  a  ship  of  the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  curiosity,  how 
ever,  is  Shakspeare' s  chair.  It  stands  in  the 
chimney  nook  of  a  small  gloomy  chamber,  just 
behind  what  was  his  father's  shop.  Here  he 
may  many  a  time  have  sat  when  a  boy,  watch 
ing  the  slowly  revolving  spit  with  all  the  long 
ing  of  an  urchin  ;  or  of  an  evening,  listening 
to  the  cronies  and  gossips  of  Stratford,  dealing 
forth  churchyard  tales  and  legendary  anecdotes 
of  the  troublesome  times  of  England.  In  this 
chair  it  is  the  custom  of  every  one  that  visits 
the  house  to  sit :  whether  this  be  done  with 
the  hope  of  imbibing  any  of  the  inspiration  of 
the  bard  I  am  at  a  loss  to  say,  I  merely 
mention  the  fact ;  and  mine  hostess  privately 
assured  me,  that,  though  built  of  solid  oak, 


Jr          120  abe  5fcetcb*;)Boofc 


6 


such  was  the  fervent  zeal  of  devotees  that  the 
chair  had  to  be  new  bottomed  at  least  once  in 
three  years.  It  is  worthy  of  notice  also,  in  the 
history  of  this  extraordinary  chair,  that  it  par 
takes  something  of  the  volatile  nature  of  the 
Santa  Casa  of  L,oretto,  or  the  flying  chair  of 
the  Arabian  enchanter ;  for  though  sold  some 
few  years  since  to  a  northern  princess,  yet, 
strange  to  tell,  it  has  found  its  way  back  again 
to  the  old  chimney  corner. 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters, 
and  am  ever  willing  to  be  deceived,  where  the 
deceit  is  pleasant  and  costs  nothing.  I  am 
therefore  a  ready  believer  in  relics,  legends, 
and  local  anecdotes  of  goblins  and  great  men  ; 
and  would  advise  all  travellers  who  travel  for 
their  gratification  to  be  the  same.  What  is  it 
to  us,  whether  these  stories  be  true  or  false,  so 
long  as  we  can  persuade  ourselves  into  the 
belief  of  them,  and  enjoy  all  the  charm  of  the 
reality  ?  There  is  nothing  like  resolute  good- 
humored  credulity  in  these  matters ;  and  on 
this  occasion  I  went  even  so  far  as  willingly  to 
believe  the  claims  of  mine  hostess  to  a  lineal 
descent  from  the  poet,  when,  luckily  for  my 
faith,  she  put  into  my  hands  a  play  of  her  own 
composition,  which  set  all  belief  in  her  con 
sanguinity  at  defiance. 

From  the  birthplace  of  Shakspeare  a  few 
. 


121 


paces  brought  me  to  his  grave.  He  lies  buried 
in  the  chancel  of  the  parish  church,  a  large 
and  venerable  pile,  mouldering  with  age,  but 
richly  ornamented.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of 
the  Avon,  on  an  embowered  point,  and  sepa 
rated  by  adjoining  gardens  from  the  suburbs 
of  the  town.  Its  situation  is  quiet  and  retired  ; 
the  river  runs  murmuring  at  the  foot  of  the 
churchyard,  and  the  elms  which  grow  upon  its 
banks  droop  their  branches  into  its  clear  bosom. 
An  avenue  of  limes,  the  boughs  of  which  are 
curiously  interlaced,  so  as  to  form  in  summer 
an  arched  way  of  foliage,  leads  up  from 
the  gate  of  the  yard  to  the  church  porch. 
The  graves  are  overgrown  with  grass  ;  the  gray 
tombstones,  some  of  them  nearly  sunk  into  the 
earth,  are  half  covered  with  moss,  which  has 
likewise  tinted  the  reverend  old  building. 
Small  birds  have  built  their  nests  among  the 
cornices  and  fissures  of  the  walls,  and  keep  up 
a  continual  flutter  and  chirping  ;  and  rooks 
are  sailing  and  cawing  about  its  lofty  gray 
spire. 

In  the  course  of  my  rambles  I  met  with  the 
gray-headed  sexton,  Edmonds,  and  accom 
panied  him  home  to  get  the  key  of  the  church. 
He  had  lived  in  Stratford,  man  and  boy,  for 
eighty  years,  and  seemed  still  to  consider  him 
self  a  vigorous  man,  with  the  trivial  exception 


I 


122 


that  he  had  nearly  lost  the  use  of  his  legs  for 
a  few  years  past.  His  dwelling  was  a  cottage, 
looking  out  upon  the  Avon  and  its  bordering 
meadows  ;  and  was  a  picture  of  that  neatness, 
order,  and  comfort,  which  pervade  the  humblest 
dwellings  in  this  country.  A  low  white 
washed  room,  with  a  stone  floor  carefully 
scrubbed,  served  for  parlor,  kitchen,  and  hall. 
Rows  of  pewter  and  earthen  dishes  glittered 
along  the  dresser.  On  an  old  oaken  table, 
well  rubbed  and  polished,  lay  the  family  Bible 
and  prayer-book,  and  the  drawer  contained  the 
family  library,  composed  of  about  half  a  score 
of  well-thumbed  volumes.  An  ancient  clock, 
that  important  article  of  cottage  furniture, 
ticked  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  ;  with 
a  bright  warming-pan  hanging  on  one  side  of 
it,  and  the  old  man's  horn-handled  Sunday 
cane  on  the  other.  The  fireplace,  as  usual, 
was  wide  and  deep  enough  to  admit  a  gossip 
knot  within  its  jambs.  In  one  corner  sat  the  old 
man's  granddaughter  sewing, — a  pretty  blue- 
eyed  girl, — and  in  the  opposite  corner  was  a 
superannuated  crony,  whom  he  addressed  by 
thename  of  John  Ange,  and  who,  I  found,  had 
been  his  companion  from  childhood.  They 
had  played  together  in  infancy  ;  they  had 
worked  together  in  manhood  ;  they  were  now 
tottering  about  and  gossiping  away  the  evening 


»  ,r 


of  life  ;  and  in  a  short  time  they  will  probably 
be  buried  together  in  the  neighboring  church 
yard.  It  is  not  often  that  we  see  two  streams 
of  existence  running  thus  evenly  and  tranquilly 
side  by  side  ;  it  is  only  in  such  quiet  "  bosom 
scenes  "  of  life  that  they  are  to  be  met  with. 

I  had  hoped  to  gather  some  traditionar)' 
anecdotes  of  the  bard  from  these  ancient  chron 
iclers  ;  but  they  had  nothing  new  to  impart. 
The  long  interval  during  which  Shakspeare's 
writings  lay  in  comparative  neglect  has  spread 
its  shadow  over  his  history  ;  and  it  is  his  good 
or  evil  lot  that  scarcely  anything  remains  to  his 
biographers  but  a  scant}'  handful  of  conjec 
tures. 

The  sexton  and  his  companion  had  been 
employed  as  carpenters  on  the  preparations  for 
the  celebrated  Stratford  jubilee,  and  they  re 
membered  Garrick,  the  prime  mover  of  the 
fete,  who  superintended  the  arrangements,  and 
who,  according  to  the  sexton,  was  "a  short 
punch  man,  very  lively  and  bustling."  John 
Ange  had  assisted  also  in  cutting  down  Shak 
speare's  mulberry-tree,  of  which  he  had  a  mor 
sel  in  his  pocket  for  sale  ;  no  doubt  a  sovereign 
quickener  of  literary  conception. 

I  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy 
wights  speak  very  dubiously  of  the  eloquent 
dame  who  shows  the  Shakspeare  house.  John 


124 


Cbe  Sfeetcb^JBoofc 


Auge  shook  his  head  when  I  mentioned  her 
valuable  collection  of  relics,  particularly  her 
remains  of  the  mulberry-tree  ;  and  the  old  sex 
ton  even  expressed  a  doubt  as  to  Shakspeare 
having  been  born  in  her  house.  I  soon  dis 
covered  that  he  looked  upon  her  mansion  with 
an  evil  eye,  as  a  rival  to  the  poet's  tomb  ;  the 
latter  having  comparatively  but  few  visitors. 
Thus  it  is  that  historians  differ  at  the  very  out 
set,  and  mere  pebbles  make  the  stream  of  truth 
diverge  into  different  channels  even  at  the 
fountain-head. 

We  approached  the  church  through  the 
avenue  of  limes,  and  entered  by  a  Gothic 
porch,  highly  ornamented,  with  carved  doors 
of  massive  oak.  The  interior  is  spacious,  and 
the  architecture  and  embellishments  superior 
to  those  of  most  country  churches.  There  are 
several  ancient  monuments  of  nobility  and 
gentry,  over  some  of  which  hang  funeral  escut 
cheons,  and  banners  dropping  piecemeal  from 
the  walls.  The  tomb  of  Shakspeare  is  in  the 
chancel.  The  place  is  solemn  and  sepulchral. 
Tall  elms  wave  before  the  pointed  windows, 
and  the  Avon,  which  runs  at  a  short  distance 
from  the  walls,  keeps  up  a  low  perpetual  mur 
mur.  A  flat  stone  marks  the  spot  where  the 
bard  is  buried.  There  are  four  lines  inscribed 
on  it,  said  to  have  been  written  by  himself,  and 


»f«VlrtP^f 


125 


which  have  in  them  something  extremely 
awful.  If  they  are  indeed  his  own,  they  show 
that  solicitude  about  the  quiet  of  the  grave, 
which  seems  natural  to  fine  sensibilities  and 
thoughtful  minds. 

"  Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbeare 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here. 
Blessed  be  he  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Just  over  the  grave,  in  a  niche  of  the  wall, 
is  a  bust  of  Shakspeare,  put  up  shortly  after 
his  death,  and  considered  as  a  resemblance. 
The  aspect  is  pleasant  and  serene,  with  a  finely 
arched  forehead,  and  I  thought  I  could  read  in 
it  clear  indications  of  that  cheerful,  social  dis 
position,  by  which  he  was  as  much  character 
ized  among  his  contemporaries  as  by  the  vast- 
ness  of  his  genius.  The  inscription  mentions 
his  age  at  the  time  of  his  decease — fifty-three 
years  ;  an  untimely  death  for  the  world  :  for 
what  fruit  might  not  have  been  expected  from 
the  golden  autumn  of  such  a  mind,  sheltered 
as  it  was  from  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  life, 
and  flourishing  in  the  sunshine  of  popular  and 
royal  favor. 

The  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not 
been  without  its  effect.  It  has  prevented  the 
removal  of  his  remains  from  the  bosom  of  his 


wwf 

v# 


126 


Cbe  Sfcetcb^oofc 


native  place  to  Westminster  Abbey,  which  was 
at  one  time  contemplated.  A  few  years  since 
also,  as  some  laborers  were  digging  to  make 
an  adjoining  vault,  the  earth  caved  in,  so  as 
to  leave  a  vacant  space  almost  like  an  arch, 
through  which  one  might  have  reached  into 
his  grave.  No  one,  however,  presumed  to 
meddle  with  his  remains  so  awfully  guarded  by 
a  malediction  ;  and  lest  any  of  the  idle  or  the 
curious,  or  any  collector  of  relics,  should  be 
tempted  to  commit  depredations,  the  old  sex 
ton  kept  watch  over  the  place  for  two  days, 
until  the  vault  was  finished  and  the  aperture 
closed  again.  He  told  me  that  he  had  made 
bold  to  look  in  at  the  hole,  but  could  see 
neither  coffin  nor  bones  ;  nothing  but  dust, 
It  was  something,  I  thought,  to  have  seen  the 
dust  of  Shakspeare. 

Next  to  this  grave  are  those  of  his  wife,  his 
favorite  daughter,  Mrs.  Hall,  and  others  of  his 
famity.  On  a  tomb  close  by,  also,  is  a  full- 
length  effigy  of  his  old  friend  John  Combe  of 
usurious  memory  ;  on  whom  he  is  said  to  have 
written  a  ludicrous  epitaph.  There  are  other 
monuments  around,  but  the  mind  refuses  to 
dwell  on  anything  that  is  not  connected  with 
Shakspeare.  His  idea  pervades  the  place  ;  the 
whole  pile  seems  but  as  his  mausoleum.  The 
feelings,  no  longer  checked  and  thwarted  by 


^tratfora 
Parish  Church. 


doubt,  here  indulge  in  perfect  confidence  :  other 
traces  of  him  may  be  false  or  dubious,  but  here 
is  palpable  evidence  and  absolute  certainty. 
As  I  trod  the  sounding  pavement,  there  was 
something  intense  and  thrilling  in  the  idea, 
that,  in  very  truth,  the  remains  of  Shakspeare 
were  mouldering  beneath  my  feet.  It  was  a 
long  time  before  I  could  prevail  upon  myself  to 
leave  the  place  ;  and  as  I  passed  through  the 
churchyard,  I  plucked  a  branch  from  one  of 
the  yew-trees,  the  only  relic  that  I  have  brought 
from  Stratford. 

I  had  now  visited  the  usual  objects  of  a  pil 
grim's  devotion,  but  I  had  a  desire  to  see  the 
old  family  seat  of  the  Lucys,  at  Charlecot,  and 
to  ramble  through  the  park  where  Shakspeare, 
in  company  with  some  of  the  roysters  of  Strat 
ford,  committed  his  youthful  offence  of  deer- 
stealing.  In  this  hare-brained  exploit  we  are 
told  that  he  was  taken  prisoner,  and  carried  to 
the  keeper's  lodge,  where  he  remained  all 
night  in  doleful  captivity.  When  brought  into 
the  presence  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  his  treat 
ment  must  have  been  galling  and  humiliating  ; 
for  it  so  wrought  upon  his  spirit  as  to  produce 
a  rough  pasquinade,  which  was  affixed  to  the 
park  gate  at  Charlecot.* 

*  The  following  is  the  only  stanza  extant  of  this  lam 
poon  : 


128 


Cbe 


This  flagitious  attack  upon  the  dignity  of  the 
knight  so  incensed  him,  that  he  applied  to  a 
lawyer  at  Warwick  to  put  the  severity  of  the 
laws  in  force  against  the  rhyming  deer-stalker. 
Shakspeare  did  not  wait  to  brave  the  united 
puissance  of  a  knight  of  the  shire  and  a  coun 
try  attorney.  He  forthwith  abandoned  the 
pleasant  banks  of  the  Avon  and  his  paternal 
trade  ;  wandered  away  to  London  ;  became  a 
hanger-on  to  the  theatres  ;  then  an  actor  ;  and, 
finally,  wrote  for  the  stage  ;  and  thus,  through 
the  persecution  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  Strat 
ford  lost  an  indifferent  wool-comber,  and  the 
world  gained  an  immortal  poet.  He  retained, 
however,  for  a  long  time,  a  sense  of  the  harsh 
treatment  of  the  Lord  of  Charlecot,  and  re 
venged  himself  in  his  writings ;  but  in  the 
sportive  way  of  a  good-natured  mind.  Sir 
Thomas  is  said  to  be  the  original  Justice  Shal 
low,  and  the  satire  is  slyly  fixed  upon  him 
by  the  justice's  armorial  bearings,  which,  like 

"  A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scarecrow,  at  London  an  asse, 
If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie,  whatever  befall  it. 
He  thinks  himself  great, 
Yet  an  asse  in  his  state, 

We  allow  by  his  ears  but  with  asses  to  mate  ; 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucy  whatever  befall  it." 


those  of  the  knight,  had  white  luces*  in  the 
quarterings. 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  by  his  biog 
raphers  to  soften  and  explain  away  this  early 
transgression  of  the  poet ;  but  I  look  upon  it  as 
one  of  those  thoughtless  exploits  natural  to  his 
situation  and  turn  of  mind.  Shakspeare,  when 
young,  had  doubtless  all  the  wildness  and  ir 
regularity  of  an  ardent,  undisciplined,  and  un 
directed  genius.  The  poetic  temperament  has 
naturally  something  in  it  of  the  vagabond. 
When  left  to  itself  it  runs  loosely  and  wildly, 
and  delights  in  everything  eccentric  and  licen 
tious.  It  is  often  a  turn-up  of  a  die,  in  the 
gambling  freaks  of  fate,  whether  a  natural 
genius  shall  turn  out  a  great  rogue  or  a  great 
poet  ;  and  had  not  Shakspeare' s  mind  fortu 
nately  taken  a  literary  bias,  he  might  have  as 
daringly  transcended  all  civil,  as  he  has  all 
dramatic  laws. 

I  have  little  doubt  that,  in  early  life,  when 
running,  like  an  unbroken  colt,  about  the 
neighborhood  of  Stratford,  he  was  to  be  found 
in  the  company  of  all  kinds  of  odd  anomalous 
characters,  that  he  associated  with  all  the  mad 
caps  of  the  place,  and  was  one  of  those  unlucky 
urchins,  at  mention  of  whom  old  men  shake 

*  The  luce  is  a  pike  or  jack,  and  abounds  in  the 
Avon  about  Charlecot. 


their  heads,  and  predict  that  they  will  one  day 
come  to  the  gallows.  To  him  the  poaching  in 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  park  was  doubtless  like 
a  foray  to  a  Scottish  knight,  and  struck  his 
eager,  and,  as  yet  untamed  imagination,  as 
something  delightfully  adventurous  :  * 

The  old  mansion  of  Charlecot  and  its  sur 
rounding  park  still  remain  in  the  possession 
of  the  Lucy  family,  and  are  peculiarly  inter- 

*  A  proof  of  Shakspeare's  random  habits  and  asso 
ciates  in  his  youthful  days  may  be  found  in  a  tradi 
tionary  anecdote,  picked  up  at  Stratford  by  the  elder 
V  ^**f  Ireland,  and  mentioned  in  his  Picturesque  Views  on 
'  the  Avon. 

About  seven  miles  from  Stratford  lies  the  thirsty 
little  market-town  of  Bedford,  famous  for  its  ale.  Two 
societies  of  the  village  yeomanry  used  to  meet,  under 
the  appellation  of  the  Bedford  topers,  and  to  challenge 
the  lovers  of  good  ale  of  the  neighboring  villages  to  a 
contest  of  drinking.  Among  others,  the  people  of 
Stratford  were  called  out  to  prove  the  strength  of 
their  heads  ;  and  in  the  number  of  the  champions  was 
Shakspeare,  who,  in  spite  of  the  proverb  that  "they 
who  drink  beer  will  think  beer,"  was  as  true  to  his 
ale  as  Falstaff  to  his  sack.  The  chivalry  of  Stratford 
was  staggered  at  the  first  onset,  and  sounded  a  retreat 
while  they  had  yet  legs  to  carry  them  off  the  field. 
They  had  scarcely  marched  a  mile  when,  their  legs 
failing  them,  they  were  forced  to  lie  down  under  a 
crab-tree,  where  they  passed  the  night.  It  is  still 
standing,  and  goes  by  the  name  of  Shakspeare's  tree. 

In  the  morning  his  companions  awaked  the  bard,  and 


esting,  from  being  connected  with  this  whimsi 
cal  but  eventful  circumstance  in  the  scanty 
history  of  the  bard.  As  the  house  stood  but 
little  more  than  three  miles'  distance  from 
Stratford,  I  resolved  to  pay  it  a  pedestrian 
visit,  that  I  might  stroll  leisurely  through 
some  of  those  scenes  from  which  Shakspeare 
must  have  derived  his  earliest  ideas  of  rural 
imagery. 

The  country  was  yet  naked  and  leafless  ;  but 
English  scenery  is  always  verdant,  and  the  sud 
den  change  in  the  temperature  of  the  weather 
was  surprising  in  its  quickening  effects  upon 
the  landscape.  It  was  inspiring  and  animating 
to  witness  this  first  awakening  of  spring  ;  to 
feel  its  warm  breath  stealing  over  the  senses  ; 
to  see  the  moist  mellow  earth  beginning  to  put 

proposed  returning  to  Bedford,  but  he  declined,  saying 
be  had  had  enough,  having  drank  with 

Piping  Pebworth,  Dancing  Marston, 
Haunted  Hilbro',  Hungry  Grafton, 
Dudging  Exhall,  Papist  Wickford, 
Beggarly  Broom,  and  Drunken  Bedford." 

"  The  villages  here  alluded  to,"  says  Ireland,  "still 
bear  the  epithets  thus  given  them  :  the  people  of  Peb 
worth  are  still  famed  for  their  skill  on  the  pipe  and 
tabor ;  Hilborough  is  now  called  Haunted  Hilbor 
ough  ;  and  Grafton  is  famous  for  the  poverty  of  its 


forth  the  green  sprout  and  the  tender  blade ; 
and  the  trees  and  shrubs,  in  their  reviving 
tints  and  bursting  buds,  giving  the  promise  of 
returning  foliage  and  flower.  The  cold  snow 
drop,  that  little  borderer  on  the  skirts  of  win 
ter,  was  to  be  seen  with  its  chaste  white 
blossoms  in  the  small  gardens  before  the  cot 
tages.  The  bleating  of  the  new-dropt  lambs 
was  faintly  heard  from  the  fields.  The  spar 
row  twittered  about  the  thatched  eaves  and 
budding  hedges  ;  the  robin  threw  a  livelier 
note  into  his  late  querulous  wintry  strain  ;  and 
the  lark,  springing  up  from  the  reeking  bosom 
of  the  meadow,  towered  away  into  the  bright 
fleecy  cloud,  pouring  forth  torrents  of  melody. 
As  I  watched  the  little  songster,  mounting  up 
higher  and  higher,  until  his  body  was  a  mere 
speck  on  the  white  bosom  of  the  cloud,  while 
the  ear  was  still  filled  with  his  music,  it  called 
to  mind  Shakspeare's  exquisite  little  song  in 
"Cymbeline"  : 

"  Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs, 
On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies. 

"  And  winking  mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 
My  lady  sweet  arise  !  " 


Indeed  the  whole  country  about  here  is 
poetic  ground  :  everything  is  associated  with 
the  idea  of  Shakspeare.  Every  old  cottage 
that  I  saw,  I  fancied  into  some  resort  of  his 
boyhood,  where  he  had  acquired  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  rustic  life  and  manners,  and 
heard  those  legendary  tales  and  wild  supersti 
tions  which  he  has  woven  like  witchcraft  into 
his  dramas.  For  in  his  time,  we  are  told,  it 
was  a  popular  amusement  in  winter  evenings 
"  to  sit  round  the  fire,  and  tell  merry  tales  of 
errant  knights,  queens,  lovers,  lords,  ladies, 
giants,  dwarfs,  thieves,  cheaters,  witches, 
fairies,  goblins,  and  friars."  * 

My  route  for  a  part  of  the  way  lay  in  sight 
of  the  Avon,  which  made  a  variety  of  the 
most  fancy  doublings  and  windings  through  a 
wTide  and  fertile  valley  ;  sometimes  glittering 
from  among  willows  which  fringed  its  bor- 

*  Scot,  in  his  "  Discoverie  of  Witchcraft,"  enu 
merates  a  host  of  these  fireside  fancies.  "  And  they 
have  so  fraid  us  with  bull-beggars,  spirits,  witches, 
urchins,  elves,  hags,  fairies,  satyrs,  pans,  faunes, 
syrens,  kit  with  the  can  sticke,  tritons,  centaurs, 
dwarfes,  giantes,  imps,  calcars,  conjurors,  nymphes, 
changelings,  incubus,  Robin-good-fellow,  the  spoorne, 
the  mare,  the  man  in  the  oke,  the  hell-waine,  the  fier 
drake,  the  puckle,  Tom  Thombe,  hobgoblins,  Tom 
Tumbler,  boneless,  and  such  other  bugs,  that  we  were 
afraid  of  our  own  shadows." 


ders  ;  sometimes  disappearing  among  groves, 
or  beneath  green  banks  ;  and  sometimes  ram 
bling  out  into  full  view,  and  making  an  azure 
sweep  round  a  slope  of  meadow  land.  This 
beautiful  bosom  of  country  is  called  the  Vale 
of  the  Red  Horse.  A  distant  line  of  undula 
ting  blue  hills  seems  to  be  its  boundary,  whilst 
all  the  soft  intervening  landscape  lies  in  a 
manner  enchained  in  the  silver  links  of  the 
Avon. 

After  pursuing  the  road  for  about  three 
miles,  I  turned  off  into  a  footpath,  which  led 
along  the  borders  of  fields,  and  under  hedge 
rows  to  a  private  gate  of  the  park  ;  there  was 
a  stile,  however,  for  the  benefit  of  the  pedes 
trian  ;  there  being  a  public  right  of  way 
through  the  grounds.  I  delight  in  these  hos 
pitable  estates,  in  which  every  one  has  a  kind 
of  property — at  least  as  far  as  the  footpath  is 
concerned.  It  in  some  measure  reconciles  a 
poor  man  to  his  lot,  and,  what  is  more,  to  the 
better  lot  of  his  neighbor,  thus  to  have  parks 
and  pleasure-grounds  thrown  open  for  his  rec 
reation.  He  breathes  the  pure  air  as  freely, 
and  lolls  as  luxuriously  under  the  shade,  as  the 
lord  of  the  soil  ;  and  if  he  has  not  the  privilege 
of  calling  all  that  he  sees  his  own,  he  has  not, 
at  the  same  time,  the  trouble  of  paying  for  it, 
and  keeping  it  in  order. 


nvon  135 

I  now  found  myself  among  noble  avenues 
of  oaks  and  elms,  whose  vast  size  bespoke  the 
growth  of  centuries.  The  wind  sounded  sol 
emnly  among  their  branches,  and  the  rooks 
cawed  from  their  hereditary  nests  in  the  tree- 
tops.  The  eye  ranged  through  a  long  lessen 
ing  vista,  with  nothing  to  interrupt  the  view 
but  a  distant  statue  ;  and  a  vagrant  deer  stalk 
ing  like  a  shadow  across  the  opening. 

There  is  something  about  these  stately  old 
avenues  that  has  the  effect  of  Gothic  archi 
tecture,  not  merely  from  the  pretended  simi 
larity  of  form,  but  from  their  bearing  the  evi 
dence  of  long  duration,  and  of  having  had 
their  origin  in  a  period  of  time  with  which  we 
associate  ideas  of  romantic  grandeur.  They 
betoken  also  the  long-settled  dignity,  and 
proudly  concentrated  independence  of  an  an 
cient  family  ;  and  I  have  heard  a  worthy  but 
aristocratic  old  friend  observe,  when  speaking 
of  the  sumptuous  palaces  of  modern  gentry, 
that  "  money  could  do  much  with  stone  and 
mortar,  but,  thank  Heaven,  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  suddenly  building  up  an  avenue  of 
oaks." 

It  was  from  wandering  in  early  life  among 
this  rich  scenery,  and  about  the  romantic  soli 
tudes  of  the  adjoining  park  of  Fullbroke,  which 
then  formed  a  part  of  the  Lucy  estate,  that 


Gbe  Sfcetcb*:fi3oofc 


some  of  Shakspeare's  commentators  have  sup 
posed  he  derived  his  noble  forest  meditations 
of  Jaques,  and  the  enchanting  woodland  pic 
tures  in  "As  You  Like  It."  It  is  in  lonely 
wanderings  through  such  scenes,  that  the  mind 
drinks  deep  but  quiet  draughts  of  inspiration, 
and  becomes  intensely  sensible  of  the  beauty 
and  majesty  of  nature.  The  imagination  kin 
dles  into  revery  and  rapture  ;  vague  but  ex 
quisite  images  and  ideas  keep  breaking  upon 
it  ;  and  we  revel  in  a  mute  and  almost  incom 
municable  luxury  of  thought.  It  was  in  some 
such  mood,  and  perhaps  under  one  of  those 
very  trees  before  me,  which  threw  their  broad 
shades  over  the  grassy  banks  and  quivering 
waters  of  the  Avon,  that  the  poet's  fancy  may 
have  sallied  forth  into  that  little  song  which 
breathes  the  very  soul  of  a  rural  voluptuary. 

"  Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  throat 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither. 
Here  shall  he  see, 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather." 

I  had  now  come  in  sight  of  the  house.     It  is 
a  large  building  of  brick,  with  stone  quoins, 

I 


and  is  in  the  Gothic  style  of  Queen  Elizabeth's 
day,  having  been  built  in  the  first  year  of  her 
reign.  The  exterior  remains  very  nearly  in  its 
original  state,  and  may  be  considered  a  fair 
specimen  of  the  residence  of  a  wealthy  country 
gentleman  of  those  days.  A  great  gateway 
opens  from  the  park  into  a  kind  of  courtyard 
in  front  of  the  house,  ornamented  with  a  grass- 
plot,  shrubs,  and  flower-beds.  The  gateway  is 
in  imitation  of  the  ancient  barbacan  ;  being  a 
kind  of  outpost,  and  flanked  by  towers  ;  though 
evidently  for  mere  ornament,  instead  of  de 
fence.  The  front  of  the  house  is  completely  in 
the  old  style  ;  with  stone-shafted  casements,  a 
great  bow- window  of  heavy  stone- work,  and  a 
portal  with  armorial  bearings  over  it,  carved 
in  stone.  At  each  corner  of  the  building  is  an 
octagon  tower,  surmounted  by  a  gilt  ball  and 
weathercock. 

The  Avon,  which  winds  through  the  park, 
makes  a  bend  just  at  the  foot  of  a  gently  slop 
ing  bank,  which  sweeps  down  from  the  rear  of 
the  house.  Large  herds  of  deer  were  feeding 
or  reposing  upon  its  borders  ;  and  swans  were 
sailing  majestically  upon  its  bosom.  As  I 
contemplated  the  venerable  old  mansion,  I 
called  to  mind  Falstaff's  encomium  on  Justice 
Shallow's  abode,  and  the  affected  indifference 
and  real  vanity  of  the  latter. 


"  Falstaff.  You  have  a  goodly  dwelling  and  a 
rich. 

Shallozv.  Barren,  barren,  barren ;  beggars  all, 
beggars  all,  Sir  John  : — marry,  good  air." 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  joviality  of 
the  old  mansion  in  the  days  of  Shakspeare, 
it  had  now  an  air  of  stillness  and  solitude. 
The  great  iron  gateway  that  opened  into  the 
courtyard  was  locked  ;  there  was  no  show  of 
servants  bustling  about  the  place ;  the  deer 
gazed  quietly  at  me  as  I  passed,  being  no  longer 
harried  by  the  moss-troopers  of  Stratford.  The 
only  sign  of  domestic  life  that  I  met  with  was 
a  white  cat,  stealing  with  wary  look  and 
stealth}7  pace  towards  the  stables,  as  if  on  some 
nefarious  expedition.  I  must  not  omit  to  men 
tion  the  carcass  of  a  scoundrel  crow  which  I 
saw  suspended  against  the  barn  wall,  as  it 
shows  that  the  Lucys  still  inherit  that  lordly 
abhorrence  of  poachers,  and  maintain  that  rig 
orous  exercise  of  territorial  power  which  was 
so  strenuously  manifested  in  the  case  of  the 
bard. 

After  prowling  about  for  some  time,  I  at 
length  found  my  way  to  a  lateral  portal,  which 
was  the  every-day  entrance  to  the  mansion.  I 
was  courteously  received  by  a  worthy  old 
housekeeper,  who,  with  the  civility  and  com 
municativeness  of  her  order,  showed  me  the 


Strattotf>*oti»8voti 


interior  of  the  house.  The  greater  part  has 
undergone  alterations,  and  been  adapted  to 
modern  tastes  and  modes  of  living  :  there  is  a 
fine  old  oaken  staircase  ;  and  the  great  hall, 
that  noble  feature  in  an  ancient  manor-house, 
still  retains  much  of  the  appearance  it  must 
have  had  in  the  days  of  Shakspeare.  The 
ceiling  is  arched  and  lofty  ;  and  at  one  end 
is  a  gallery  in  which  stands  an  organ.  The 
weapons  and  trophies  of  the  chase,  which 
formerly  adorned  the  hall  of  a  country  gentle 
man,  have  made  way  for  family  portraits. 
There  is  a  wide  hospitable  fireplace,  calculated 
for  an  ample  old-fashioned  wood  fire,  formerly 
the  rallying-place  of  winter  festivity.  On  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hall  is  the  huge  Gothic 
bow- window,  with  stone  shafts,  which  looks 
out  upon  the  courtyard.  Here  are  emblazoned 
in  stained  glass  the  armorial  bearings  of  the 
Lucy  family  for  many  generations,  some  being 
dated  in  1558.  I  was  delighted  to  observe  in 
the  quarterings  the  three  white  luces,  by  which 
the  character  of  Sir  Thomas  was  first  identified 
with  that  of  Justice  Shallow.  They  are  men 
tioned  in  the  first  scene  of  the  ' '  Merry  Wives 
of  Windsor,"  where  the  Justice  is  in  a  rage 
with  Falstaff  for  having  "beaten  his  men, 
killed  his  deer,  and  broken  into  his  lodge." 
The  poet  had  no  doubt  the  offences  of  himself 


140 


Gbe  SfcetcfcKIBoofc 


and  his  comrades  in  mind  at  the  time,  and  we 
may  suppose  the  family  pride  and  vindictive 
threats  of  the  puissant  Shallow  to  be  a  carica 
ture  of  the  pompous  indignation  of  Sir  Thomas. 

"Shallow.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not:  I  will 
make  a  Star-Chamber  matter  of  it ;  if  he  were  twenty 
John  Falstaffs,  he  shall  not  abuse  Sir  Robert  Shallow, 
Esq. 

Slender.  In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace, 
and  coram. 

Shallow.     Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  custalorum. 

Slender.  Ay,  and  ralalorum  too,  and  a  geutleman 
born,  master  parson  ;  who  writes  himself  Annigero 
in  any  bill,  warrant,  quittance,  or  obligation,  Armi- 
gero. 

Shallow.  Ay,  that  I  do ;  and  have  done  any  time 
these  three  hundred  years. 

Slender.  All  his  successors  gone  before  him  have 
done  't,  and  all  his  ancestors  that  come  after  him 
may  ;  they  may  give  the  dozen  while  luces  in  their 
coat 

Shallow.     The  council  shall  hear  it ;  it  is  a  riot. 

Evans.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  of  a  riot ; 
there  is  no  fear  of  Got  in  a  riot ;  the  council,  hear 
you,  shall  desire  to  hear  the  fear  of  Got,  and  not  to 
hear  a  riot ;  take  your  vizaments  in  that. 

Shallow.  Ha  !  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again, 
the  sword  should  end  it !  " 

Near  the  window  thus  emblazoned  hung 
a  portrait  by  Sir  Peter  I^ely,  one  of  the  Lucy 
family,  a  great  beauty  of  the  time  of  Charles 


the  Second :  the  old  housekeeper  shook  her 
head  as  she  pointed  to  the  picture,  and  in 
formed  me  that  this  lady  had  been  sadly  ad 
dicted  to  cards,  and  had  gambled  away  a 
great  portion  of  the  family  estate,  among  which 
was  that  part  of  the  park  where  Shakspeare 
and  his  comrades  had  killed  the  deer.  The 
lands  thus  lost  had  not  been  entirely  regained 
by  the  family  even  at  the  present  day.  It  is 
but  justice  to  this  recreant  dame  to  confess  that 
she  had  a  surpassingly  fine  hand  and  arm. 

The  picture  which  most  attracted  my  atten 
tion  was  a  great  painting  over  the  fireplace, 
containing  likenesses  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and 
his  family,  who  inhabited  the  hall  in  the  lat 
ter  part  of  Shakspeare's  lifetime.  I  at  first 
thought  that  it  was  the  vindictive  knight  him 
self,  but  the  housekeeper  assured  me  that  it 
was  his  son  ;  the  only  likeness  extant  of  the 
former  being  an  effigy  upon  his  tomb  in  the 
church  of  the  neighboring  hamlet  of  Charle- 
cot.*  The  picture  gives  a  lively  idea  of  the 

*  This  effigy  is  in  white  marble,  and  represents  the 
Knight  in  complete  armor.  Near  him  lies  the  effigy 
of  his  wife,  and  on  her  tomb  is  the  following  inscrip 
tion  ;  which,  if  really  composed  by  her  husband, 
places  him  quite  above  the  intellectual  level  of  Master 
Shallow  : 

Here  1  yeth  the  Lady  Joyce  Lucy  wife  of  Sir  Thomas 


Gbe 


costume  and  manners  of  the  time.  Sir  Thomas 
is  dressed  in  ruff  and  doublet ;  white  shoes 
with  roses  in  them  ;  and  has  a  peaked  yellow, 
or,  as  Master  Slender  would  say,  ' '  a  cane- 
colored  beard."  His  lady  is  seated  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  picture,  in  wide  ruff  and 
long  stomacher,  and  the  children  have  a  most 
venerable  stiffness  and  formality  of  dress. 
Hounds  and  spaniels  are  mingled  in  the  family 
group ;  a  hawk  is  seated  on  his  perch  in  the 

I/ucy  of  Charlecot  in  ye  county  of  Warwick,  Knight, 
Daughter  and  heir  of  Thomas  Acton  of  Button  in  ye 
county  of  Worcester  Esquire  who  departed  out  of 
this  wretched  world  to  her  heavenly  kingdom  ye  10 
day  of  February  in  ye  yeare  of  our  Lord  God  1595  and 
of  her  age  60  and  three.  All  the  time  of  her  lyfe  a 
true  and  faythful  servant  of  her  good  God,  never  de 
tected  of  any  cryme  or  vice.  In  religion  most  sounde, 
in  love  to  her  husband  most  faythful  and  true.  In 
friendship  most  constant ;  to  what  in  trust  was  com 
mitted  unto  her  most  secret.  In  wisdom  excelling. 
In  governing  of  her  house,  bringing  up  of  youth  in 
ye  fear  of  God  that  did  converse  with  her  moste  rare 
and  singular.  A  great  maintayner  of  hospitality. 
Greatly  esteemed  of  her  betters  ;  misliked  of  none 
unless  of  the  envyous.  When  all  is  spoken  that 
can  be  saide  a  woman  so  garnished  with  virtue  as 
not  to  be  bettered  and  hardly  to  be  equalled  by  any. 
As  shee  lived  most  virtuously  so  shee  died  most  Godly. 
Set  downe  by  him  yt  best  did  knowe  what  hath  byn 
written  to  be  true. 

Thomas  Lucye. 


Stratford*on*Svon 


foreground,  and  one  of  the  children  holds  a 
bow;  —  all  intimating  the  knight's  skill  in 
hunting,  hawking,  and  archery — so  indispen 
sable  to  an  accomplished  gentleman  in  those 
days.* 

I  regretted  to  find  that  the  ancient  furniture 
of  the  hall  had  disappeared  ;  for  I  had  hoped 
to  meet  with  the  stately  elbow-chair  of  carved 
oak,  in  which  the  country  squire  of  former 
days  was  wont  to  sway  the  sceptre  of  empire 
over  his  rural  domains  ;  and  in  which  it  might 
be  presumed  the  redoubted  Sir  Thomas  sat 
enthroned  in  awful  state  when  the  recreant 
Shakspeare  was  brought  before  him.  As  I 
like  to  deck  out  pictures  for  my  own  entertain- 

*  Bishop  Earle,  speaking  of  the  country  gentleman 
of  his  time,  observes,  "his  housekeeping  is  seen  much 
in  the  different  families  of  dogs,  and  serving-men  at 
tendant  on  their  kennels  ;  and  the  deepness  of  their 
throats  in  the  depth  of  his  discourse.  A  hawk  he 
esteems  the  true  burden  of  nobility,  and  is  exceedingly 
ambitious  to  seem  delighted  with  the  sport,  and  have 
his  fist  gloved  with  his  jesses."  And  Gilpin,  in  his 
description  of  a  Mr.  Hastings,  remarks,  "  he  kept  all 
sorts  of  hounds  that  run  buck,  fox,  hare,  otter,  and 
badger  ;  and  had  hawks  of  all  kinds  both  long  and  short 
winged.  His  great  hall  was  commonly  strewed  with 
marrow  bones,  and  full  of  hawk,  perches,  hounds, 
spaniels,  and  terriers.  On  a  broad  hearth,  paved  with 
brick,  lay  some  of  the  choicest  terriers,  hounds,  and 
spaniels." 


Cbe  Shetcb^JBoofc 


ment,  I  pleased  myself  with  the  idea  that  this 
very  hall  had  been  the  scene  of  the  unlucky 
bard's  examination  on  the  morning  after  his 
captivity  in  the  lodge.  I  fancied  to  myself  the 
rural  potentate,  surrounded  by  his  body-guard 
of  butler,  pages,  blue-coated  serving-men, 
with  their  badges  ;  while  the  luckless  culprit 
was  brought  in,  forlorn  and  chopfallen,  in  the 
custody  of  gamekeepers,  huntsmen,  and  whip- 
pers-in,  and  followed  by  a  rabble  rout  of  country 
clowns.  I  fancied  bright  faces  of  curious 
housemaids  peeping  from  the  half-opened 
doors  ;  while  from  the  gallery  the  fair  daugh 
ters  of  the  knight  leaned  gracefully  forward, 
eying  the  youthful  prisoner  with  that  pity 
"that  dwells  in  womanhood." — Who  would 
have  thought  that  this  poor  varlet,  thus  trem 
bling  before  the  brief  authority  of  a  country 
squire,  and  the  sport  of  rustic  boors,  was  soon 
to  become  the  delight  of  princes,  the  theme  of 
all  tongues  and  ages,  the  dictator  to  the  human 
mind,  and  was  to  confer  immortality  on  his 
oppressor  by  a  caricature  and  a  lampoon  ! 

I  was  now  invited  by  the  butler  to  walk  into 
the  garden,  and  I  felt  inclined  to  visit  the 
orchard  and  arbor  where  the  justice  treated 
Sir  John  Falstaff  and  Cousin  Silence  "  to  a 
last  year's  pippin  of  his  own  grafting,  with 
a  dish  of  caraways  ;  ' '  but  I  had  already  spent 


so  much  of  the  day  in  my  ramblings  that  I 
\vas  obliged  to  give  up  any  further  investiga 
tions.  When  about  to  take  my  leave  I  was 
gratified  by  the  civil  entreaties  of  the  house 
keeper  and  butler,  that  I  would  take  some 
refreshment :  an  instance  of  good  old  hospital 
ity  which,  I  grieve  to  say,  we  castle-hunters 
seldom  meet  with  in  modern  days.  I  make  no 
doubt  it  is  a  virtue  which  the  present  represen 
tative  of  the  Lucys  inherits  from  his  ancestors  ; 
for  Shakspeare,  even  in  his  caricature,  makes 
Justice  Shallow  importunate  in  this  respect, 
as  witness  his  pressing  instances  to  FalstafF. 

"  By  cock  and  pye,  sir,  you  shall  not  away  to-night 
.  .  .  I  will  not  excuse  you ;  you  shall  not  be 
excused ;  excuses  shall  not  be  admitted  ;  there  is  no 
excuse  shall  serve  ;  you  shall  not  be  excused  .  .  . 
Some  pigeons,  Davy  ;  a  couple  of  short-legged  hens  ; 
a  joint  of  mutton  ;  and  any  pretty  little  tiny  kick 
shaws,  tell  William  Cook." 

I  now  bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  old 
hall.  My  mind  had  become  so  completely 
possessed  by  the  imaginary  scenes  and  charac 
ters  connected  with  it,  that  I  seemed  to  be 
actually  living  among  them.  Everything 
brought  them  as  it  were  before  my  eyes  ;  and 
as  the  door  of  the  dining-room  opened,  I 
almost  expected  to  hear  the  feeble  voice  of 


VOL.  II.— 10 


Master   Silence  quavering    forth   his   favorite 
ditty  : 

"  'Tis  merry  in  hall,  when  beards  wag  all, 
And  welcome  merry  shrove-tide  !  " 

On  returning  to  my  inn,  I  could  not  but 
reflect  on  the  singular  gift  of  the  poet ;  to  be 
able  thus  to  spread  the  magic  of  his  mind 
over  the  very  face  of  nature  ;  to  give  to  things 
and  places  a  charm  and  character  not  their 
own,  and  to  turn  this  "  wTorking-day  wrorld  " 
into  a  perfect  fairy  land.  He  is  indeed  the 
true  enchanter,  whose  spell  operates,  not  upon 
the  senses,  but  upon  the  imagination  and  the 
heart.  Under  the  wizard  influence  of  Shak- 
speare  I  had  been  walking  all  day  in  a  complete 
delusion.  I  had  surveyed  the  landscape 
through  the  prism  of  poetry,  which  tinged 
every  object  with  the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  I 
had  been  surrounded  with  fancied  beings ; 
with  mere  airy  nothings,  conjured  up  by 
poetic  power  ;  yet  which,  to  me,  had  all  the 
charm  of  reality.  I  had  heard  Jaques  solilo 
quize  beneath  his  oak  :  had  beheld  the  fair 
Rosalind  and  her  companion  adventuring 
through  the  woodlands  ;  and,  above  all,  had 
been  once  more  present  in  spirit  with  fat  Jack 
FalstafF  and  his  contemporaries,  from  the  au 
gust  Justice  Shallow,  down  to  the  gentle  Master 


•"^Tiffin 

m 


•: 


/^  fsh  C/nnr/i,   Strati 

on-  .-Iron. 


'     rm 


Slender  and  the  sweet  Anne  Page.  Ten  thou 
sand  honors  and  blessings  on  the  bard  who 
has  thus  gilded  the  dull  realities  of  life  with 
innocent  illusions  ;  who  has  spread  exquisite 
and  unbought  pleasures  in  my  checkered  path  ; 
and  beguiled  my  spirit  in  many  a  lonely  hour, 
with  all  the  cordial  and  cheerful  sympathies  of 
social  life  ! 

As  I  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Avon  on 
my  return,  I  paused  to  contemplate  the  distant 
church  in  which  the  poet  lies  buried,  and  could 
not  but  exult  in  the  malediction,  which  has 
kept  his  ashes  undisturbed  in  its  quiet  and 
hallowed  vaults.  What  honor  could  his  name 
have  derived  from  being  mingled  in  dusty 
companionship  with  the  epitaphs  and  escutch 
eons  and  venal  eulogiums  of  a  titled  multitude  ? 
What  would  a  crowded  corner  in  Westminster 
Abbey  have  been,  compared  with  this  reverend 
pile,  which  seems  to  stand  in  beautiful  loneli 
ness  as  his  sole  mausoleum  !  The  solicitude 
about  the  grave  may  be  but  the  offspring  of 
an  over-wrought  sensibility  ;  but  human  nature 
is  made  up  of  foibles  and  prejudices  ;  and  its 
best  and  tenderest  affections  are  mingled  with 
these  factitious  feelings.  He  who  has  sought 
renown  about  the  world,  and  has  reaped  a  full 
harvest  of  worldly  favor,  will  find,  after  all, 
that  there  is  no  love,  no  admiration,  no 


148 


applause,  so  sweet  to  the  soul  as  that  which 
springs  up  in  his  native  place.  It  is  there  that 
he  seeks  to  be  gathered  in  peace  and  honor 
among  his  kindred  and  his  early  friends. 
And  when  the  weary  heart  and  failing  head 
begin  to  warn  him  that  the  evening  of  life  is 
drawing  on,  he  turns  as  fondly  as  does  the 
infant  to  the  mother's  arms,  to  sink  to  sleep  in 
the  bosom  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood. 

How  would  it  have  cheered  the  spirit  of  the 
youthful  bard  when,  wandering  forth  in  dis 
grace  upon  a  doubtful  world,  he  cast  back  a 
heavy  look  upon  his  paternal  home;  could  he 
have  foreseen  that,  before  many  years,  he 
should  return  to  it  covered  with  renown  ;  that 
his  name  should  become  the  boast  and  glory 
of  his  native  place  ;  that  his  ashes  should  be 
religiously  guarded  as  its  most  precious  treas 
ure  ;  and  that  its  lessening  spire,  on  which 
his  eyes  were  fixed  in  tearful  contemplation, 
should  one  day  become  the  beacon,  towering 
amidst  the  gentle  landscape,  to  guide  the 
literary  pilgrim  of  every  nation  to  his  tomb  ! 


: 


Uraits  of  flnMau  Character 

"  I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered  Logan's  cabin 
hungry,  and  he  gave  him  not  to  eat  ;  if  ever  he  came  cold  and 
naked,  and  he  clothed  him  not." 

SPEECH  OF  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF. 


,HERE  is  something 
in  the  character  and 
habits  of  the  North 
American  savage, 
taken  in  connection 
with  the  scenery  over 
which  he  is  accus 
tomed  to  range,  its 

vast  lakes,  boundless  forests,  majestic  rivers, 
and  trackless  plains,  that  is,  to  my  mind, 
wonderfully  striking  and  sublime.  He  is 
formed  for  the  wilderness,  as  the  Arab  is  for 
the  desert.  His  nature  is  stern,  simple,  and 
enduring  ;  fitted  to  grapple  with  difficulties, 
and  to  support  privations.  There  seems  but 
little  soil  in  his  heart  for  the  support  of  the 
kindly  virtues  ;  and  yet,  if  we  would  but  take 
the  trouble  to  penetrate  through  that  proud 


stoicism  and  habitual  taciturnity,  which  lock 
up  his  character  from  casual  observation,  we 
should  find  him  linked  to  his  fellow-man  of 
civilized  life  by  more  of  those  sympathies  and 
affections  than  are  usually  ascribed  to  him. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate  abor 
igines  of  America,  in  the  early  periods  of  col 
onization,  to  be  doubly  wronged  by  the  white 
men.  They  have  been  dispossessed  of  their 
hereditary  possessions  by  mercenary  and  fre 
quently  wanton  warfare  ;  and  their  characters 
have  been  traduced  by  bigoted  and  interested 
writers.  The  colonist  often  treated  them  like 
beasts  of  the  forest  ;  and  the  author  has  en 
deavored  to  justify  him  in  his  outrages.  The 
former  found  it  easier  to  exterminate  than  to 
civilize  ;  the  latter,  to  vilify  than  to  discriminate. 
The  appellations  of  savage  and  pagan  were 
deemed  sufficient  to  sanction  the  hostilities  of 
both  ;  and  thus  the  poor  wanderers  of  the  for 
est  were  persecuted  and  defamed,  not  because 
they  were  guilty,  but  because  they  were  igno 
rant. 

The  rights  of  the  savage  have  seldom  been 
properly  appreciated  or  respected  by  the  white 
man.  In  peace  he  has  too  often  been  the  dupe 
of  artful  traffic  ;  in  war  he  has  been  regarded  as 
a  ferocious  animal,  whose  life  or  death  was  a 
question  of  mere  precaution  and  convenience. 


Craits  ot  fttftian  Cbaractcr 


Man  is  cruelly  wasteful  of  life  when  his  own 
safety  is  endangered,  and  he  is  sheltered  by  im 
punity  ;  and  little  mercy  is  to  be  expected  from 
him  when  he  feels  the  sting  of  the  reptile  and 
is  conscious  of  the  power  to  destroy. 

The  same  prejudices,  which  were  indulged 
thus  early,  exist  in  common  circulation  at  the 
present  day.  Certain  learned  societies  have, 
it  is  true,  with  laudable  diligence,  endeavored 
to  investigate  and  record  the  real  characters 
and  manners  of  the  Indian  tribes  ;  the  Ameri 
can  government,  too,  has  wisely  and  humanely 
exerted  itself  to  inculcate  a  friendly  and  for 
bearing  spirit  towards  them,  and  to  protect 
them  from  fraud  and  injustice.*  The  current 
opinion  of  the  Indian  character,  however,  is 
too  apt  to  be  formed  from  the  miserable  hordes 
which  infest  the  frontiers,  and  hang  on  the 
skirts  of  the  settlements.  These  are  too  com 
monly  composed  of  degenerate  beings,  cor- 

*  The  American  government  has  been  indefatigable 
in  its  exertions  to  ameliorate  the  situation  of  the  In 
dians,  and  to  introduce  among  them  the  arts  of  civil 
ization,  and  civil  and  religious  knowledge.  To  pro 
tect  them  from  the  frauds  of  the  white  traders,  no 
purchase  of  land  from  them  by  individuals  is  per 
mitted  ;  nor  is  any  person  allowed  to  receive  lauds 
from  them  as  a  present,  without  the  express  sanction 
of  government.  These  precautions  are  strictly  en 
forced. 


152 


Gbe 


rupted  and  enfeebled  by  the  vices  of  society, 
without  being  benefited  by  its  civilization. 
That  proud  independence,  which  formed  the 
main  pillar  of  savage  virtue,  has  been  shaken 
down,  and  the  whole  moral  fabric  lies  in  ruins. 
Their  spirits  are  humiliated  and  debased  by  a 
sense  of  inferiority,  and  their  native  courage 
cowed  and  daunted  by  the  superior  knowledge 
and  power  of  their  enlightened  neighbors. 
Society  has  advanced  upon  them  like  one  of 
those  withering  airs  that  will  sometimes  breed 
desolation  over  a  whole  region  of  fertility.  It 
has  enervated  their  strength,  multiplied  their 
diseases,  and  superinduced  upon  their  original 
barbarity  the  low  vices  of  artificial  life.  It  has 
given  them  a  thousand  superfluous  wants, 
whilst  it  has  diminished  their  means  of  mere 
existence.  It  has  driven  before  it  the  animals 
of  the  chase,  who  fly  from  the  sound  of  the  axe 
and  the  smoke  of  the  settlement,  and  seek 
refuge  in  the  depths  of  remoter  forests  and  yet 
untrodden  wilds.  Thus  do  we  too  often  find 
the  Indians  on  our  frontiers  to  be  the  mere 
wrecks  and  remnants  of  once  powerful  tribes, 
who  have  lingered  in  the  vicinity  of  the  settle 
ments,  and  sunk  into  precarious  and  vagabond 
existence.  Poverty,  repining  and  hopeless 
poverty,  a  canker  of  the  mind  unknown  in 
savage  life,  corrodes  their  spirits,  and  blights 

1 


Gratis  of  Indian  Cbaractcr 


every  free  and  noble  quality  of  their  natures. 
They  become  drunken,  indolent,  feeble,  thiev 
ish,  and  pusillanimous.  They  loiter  like  va 
grants  about  the  settlements,  among  spacious 
dwellings  replete  with  elaborate  comforts, 
which  only  render  them  sensible  of  the  com 
parative  wretchedness  of  their  own  condition. 
Luxury  spreads  its  ample  board  before  their 
eyes  ;  but  they  are  excluded  from  the  banquet. 
Plenty  revels  over  the  fields  ;  but  they  are 
starving  in  the  midst  of  its  abundance  :  the 
whole  wilderness  has  blossomed  into  a  garden  ; 
but  they  feel  as  reptiles  that  infest  it. 

How  different  was  their  state  while  yet  the 
undisputed  lords  of  the  soil  !  Their  wants 
were  few,  and  the  means  of  gratification  within 
their  reach.  They  saw  every  one  around  them 
sharing  the  same  lot,  enduring  the  same  hard 
ships,  feeding  on  the  same  aliments,  arrayed  in 
the  same  rude  garments.  No  roof  then  rose, 
but  was  open  to  the  homeless  stranger ;  no 
smoke  curled  among  the  trees,  but  he  was  wel 
come  to  sit  down  by  its  fire,  and  join  the  hunter 
in  his  repast.  "For,"  says  an  old  historian 
of  New  England,  "  their  life  is  so  void  of  care, 
and  they  are  so  loving  also,  that  they  make  use 
of  those  things  they  enjoy  as  common  goods, 
and  are  therein  so  compassionate,  that  rather 
than  one  should  starve  through  want,  they 


would  starve  all ;  thus  they  pass  their  time 
merrily,  not  regarding  our  pomp,  but  are  better 
content  with  their  own,  which  some  men  es 
teem  so  meanly  of. "  Such  were  the  Indians, 
whilst  in  the  pride  and  energy  of  their  primi 
tive  natures  :  they  resembled  those  wild  plants, 
which  thrive  best  in  the  shades  of  the  forest, 
but  shrink  from  the  hand  of  cultivation,  and 
perish  beneath  the  influence  of  the  sun. 

In  discussing  the  savage  character,  writers 
have  been  too  prone  to  indulge  in  vulgar  preju 
dice  and  passionate  exaggeration,  instead  of 
the  candid  temper  of  true  philosophy.  They 
have  not  sufficiently  considered  the  peculiar 
circumstances  in  which  the  Indians  have  been 
placed,  and  the  peculiar  principles  under  which 
the}7  have  been  educated.  No  being  acts  more 
rigidly  from  rule  than  the  Indian.  His  whole 
conduct  is  regulated  according  to  some  general 
maxims  early  implanted  in  his  mind.  The 
moral  laws  that  govern  him  are,  to  be  sure, 
but  few  ;  but  then  he  conforms  to  them  all  ; 
— the  white  man  abounds  in  laws  of  religion, 
morals,  and  manners,  but  how  many  does  he 
violate  ? 

A  frequent  ground  of  accusation  against  the 
Indians  is  their  disregard  of  treaties,  and  the 
treachery  and  wantonness  with  which,  in  time 
of  apparent  peace,  they  will  suddenly  fly  to 

oft 
V'l 


/V 


x 


Grafts  of  UnDtan  Cbaractcr 


155 


hostilities.  The  intercourse  of  the  white  men 
with  the  Indians,  however,  is  too  apt  to  be 
cold,  distrustful,  oppressive,  and  insulting. 
They  seldom  treat  them  with  that  confidence 
and  frankness  which  are  indispensable  to  real 
friendship  ;  nor  is  sufficient  caution  observed 
not  to  offend  against  those  feelings  of  pride  or 
superstition,  which  often  prompt  the  Indian  to 
hostility  quicker  than  mere  considerations  of 
interest.  The  solitary  savage  feels  silently, 
but  acutely.  His  sensibilities  are  not  diffused 
over  so  wide  a  surface  as  those  of  the  white 
man ;  but  they  run  in  steadier  and  deeper 
channels.  His  pride,  his  affections,  his  super 
stitions,  are  all  directed  towards  fewer  objects  ; 
but  the  wounds  inflicted  on  them  are  propor- 
tionably  severe,  and  furnish  motives  of  hostility 
which  we  cannot  sufficiently  appreciate.  Where 
a  community  is  also  limited  in  number,  and 
forms  one  great  patriarchal  family,  as  in  an 
Indian  tribe,  the  injury  of  an  individual  is  the 
injury  of  the  whole  ;  and  the  sentiment  of  ven 
geance  is  almost  instantaneously  diffused.  One 
council-fire  is  sufficient  for  the  discussion  and 
arrangement  of  a  plan  of  hostilities.  Here  all 
the  fighting-men  and  sages  assemble.  Elo 
quence  and  superstition  combine  to  inflame  the 
minds  of  the  warriors.  The  orator  awakens 
their  martial  ardor,  and  they  are  wrought  up 


156 


to   a    kind   of    religions   desperation,    by  the 
visions  of  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer. 

An  instance  of  one  of  those  sudden  exas 
perations,  arising  from  a  motive  peculiar  to  the 
Indian  character,  is  extant  in  an  old  record  of 
the  early  settlement  of  Massachusetts.  The 
planters  of  Plymouth  had  defaced  the  monu 
ments  of  the  dead  at  Passonagessit,  and  had 
plundered  the  grave  of  the  Sachem's  mother  of 
some  skins  with  which  it  had  been  decorated. 
The  Indians  are  remarkable  for  the  reverence 
which  they  entertain  for  the  sepulchres  of  their 
kindred.  Tribes  that  have  passed  generations 
exiled  from  the  abodes  of  their  ancestors,  when 
by  chance  they  have  been  travelling  in  the 
vicinity,  have  been  known  to  turn  aside  from 
the  highway,  and,  guided  by  wonderfully  ac 
curate  tradition,  have  crossed  the  country  for 
miles  to  some  tumulus,  buried  perhaps  in 
woods,  where  the  bones  of  their  tribe  were 
anciently  deposited  ;  and  there  have  passed 
hours  in  silent  meditation.  Influenced  by  this 
sublime  and  holy  feeling,  the  Sachem,  whose 
mother's  tomb  had  been  violated,  gathered  his 
men  together,  and  addressed  them  in  the  fol 
lowing  beautifully  simple  and  pathetic  har 
angue  ;  a  curious  specimen  of  Indian  eloquence, 
and  an  affecting  instance  of  filial  piety  in  a 
savage : 


traits  of  Inftian  Cbaractcr 


When  last  the  glorious  light  of  all  the  sky 
\\as  underneath  this  globe,  and  birds  grew  si 
lent,  I  began  to  settle,  as  my  custom  is,  to  take 
repose.  Before  mine  eyes  were  fast  closed, 
methought  I  saw  a  vision,  at  which  my  spirit 
was  much  troubled  ;  and  trembling  at  that 
doleful  sight,  a  spirit  cried  aloud,  '  Behold,  my 
son,  whom  I  have  cherished,  see  the  breasts 
that  gave  thee  suck,  the  hands  that  lapped  thee 
warm,  and  fed  thee  oft.  Canst  thou  forget  to 
take  revenge  of  those  wild  people  who  have 
defaced  my  monument  in  a  despiteful  manner, 
disdaining  our  antiquities  and  honorable  cus 
toms?  See,  now,  the  Sachem's  grave  lies  like 
the  common  people,  defaced  by  an  ignoble 
race.  Thy  mother  doth  complain,  and  im 
plores  thy  aid  against  this  thievish  people, 
who  have  newly  intruded  on  our  land.  If 
this  be  suffered,  I  shall  not  rest  quiet  in  my 
everlasting  habitation.'  This  said,  the  spirit 
vanished,  and  I,  all  in  a  sweat,  not  able  scarce 
to  speak,  began  to  get  some  strength,  and  rec 
ollect  my  spirits  that  were  fled,  and  determined 
to  demand  your  counsel  and  assistance." 

I  have  adduced  this  anecdote  at  some  length, 
as  it  tends  to  show  how  these  sudden  acts  of 
hostility,  which  have  been  attributed  to  caprice 
and  perfidy,  may  often  arise  from  deep  and  gen 
erous  motives,  which  our  inattention  to  Indian 


character  and  customs  prevents  our  properly 
appreciating. 

Another  ground  of  violent  outcry  against  the 
Indians  is  their  barbarity  to  the  vanquished. 
This  had  its  origin  partly  in  policy  and  partly 
in  superstition.  The  tribes,  though  sometimes 
called  nations,  were  never  so  formidable  in  their 
numbers,  but  that  the  loss  of  several  warriors 
was  sensibly  felt  ;  this  was  particularly  the 
case  when  they  had  been  frequently  engaged 
in  warfare  ;  and  many  an  instance  occurs  in 
Indian  history,  where  a  tribe,  that  had  long 
been  formidable  to  its  neighbors,  had  been 
broken  up  and  driven  away,  by  the  capture 
and  massacre  of  its  principal  fighting-men. 
There  was  a  strong  temptation,  therefore,  to 
the  victor  to  be  merciless  ;  not  so  much  to 
gratify  any  cruel  revenge,  as  to  provide  for 
future  security.  The  Indians  had  also  the 
superstitious  belief,  frequent  among  barbarous 
nations,  and  prevalent  also  among  the  ancients, 
that  the  manes  of  their  friends  who  had  fallen 
in  battle  were  soothed  by  the  blood  of  the 
captives.  The  prisoners,  however,  who  are 
not  thus  sacrificed,  are  adopted  into  their  fam 
ilies  in  the  place  of  the  slain,  and  are  treated 
with  the  confidence  and  affection  of  relatives 
and  friends  ;  nay,  so  hospitable  and  tender  is 
their  entertainment,  that  when  the  alternative 


ttraits  of  Indian  Character 


159 


is  offered  them,  they  will  often  prefer  to  remain 
with  their  adopted  brethren,  rather  than  return 
to  the  home  and  the  friends  of  their  youth. 

The  cruelty  of  the  Indians  towards  their 
prisoners  has  been  heightened  since  the  colo 
nization  of  the  whites.  What  was  formerly  a 
compliance  with  policy  and  superstition,  has 
been  exasperated  into  a  gratification  of  ven 
geance.  They  cannot  but  be  sensible  that  the 
white  men  are  the  usurpers  of  their  ancient 
dominion,  the  cause  of  their  degradation,  and 
the  gradual  destroyers  of  their  race.  They  go 
forth  to  battle,  smarting  with  injuries  and  in 
dignities  which  they  have  individually  suf 
fered,  and  they  are  driven  to  madness  and 
despair  by  the  wide-spreading  desolation  and 
the  overwhelming  ruin  of  European  warfare. 
The  whites  have  too  frequently  set  them  an 
example  of  violence,  by  burning  their  villages, 
and  laying  waste  their  slender  means  of  sub 
sistence  ;  and  yet  they  wonder  that  savages 
do  not  show  moderation  and  magnanimity 
towards  those  who  have  left  them  nothing  but 
mere  existence  and  wretchedness. 

We  stigmatize  the  Indians,  also,  as  cowardly 
and  treacherous,  because  they  use  stratagem  in 
warfare,  in  preference  to  open  force  ;  but  in  this 
they  are  fully  justified  by  their  rude  code  of 
honor.  They  are  early  taught  that  stratagem 


• 


1 60 


is  praiseworthy  ;  the  bravest  warrior  thinks  it 
no  disgrace  to  lurk  in  silence,  and  take  every 
advantage  of  his  foe  ;  he  triumphs  in  the  su 
perior  craft  and  sagacity  by  which  he  has  been 
enabled  to  surprise  and  destroy  an  enemy.  In 
deed,  man  is  naturally  more  prone  to  subtlety 
than  open  valor,  owing  to  his  physical  weak 
ness  in  comparison  with  other  animals.  They 
are  endowed  with  natural  weapons  of  defence  : 
with  horns,  with  tusks,  with  hoofs,  and  talons  ; 
but  man  has  to  depend  on  his  superior  sagac 
ity.  In  all  his  encounters  with  these,  his  proper 
enemies,  he  resorts  to  stratagem  ;  and  when  he 
perversely  turns  his  hostility  against  his  fellow- 
man,  he  at  first  continues  the  same  subtle  mode 
of  warfare. 

The  natural  principle  of  war  is  to  do  the 
most  harm  to  our  enemy  with  the  least  harm 
to  ourselves  ;  and  this  of  course  is  to  be  effected 
by  stratagem.  That  chivalrous  courage  which 
induces  us  to  despise  the  suggestions  of  pru 
dence,  and  to  rush  in  the  face  of  certain  dan 
ger,  is  the  offspring  of  society,  and  produced 
by  education.  It  is  honorable,  because  it  is  in 
fact  the  triumph  of  lofty  sentiment  over  an 
instinctive  repugnance  to  pain,  and  over  those 
yearnings  after  personal  ease  and  security, 
which  society  has  condemned  as  ignoble.  It 
is  kept  alive  by  pride  and  the  fear  of  shame, 


{Traits  of  fnftfan  Character 


161 


and  thus  the  dread  of  real  evil  is  overcome  by 
the  superior  dread  of  an  evil  which  exists  but 
in  the  imagination.  It  has  been  cherished  and 
stimulated  also  by  various  means.  It  has  been 
the  theme  of  spirit-stirring  song  and  chival 
rous  story.  The  poet  and  minstrel  have  de 
lighted  to  shed  round  it  the  splendors  of  fiction  ; 
and  even  the  historian  has  forgotten  the  sober 
gravity  of  narration,  and  broken  forth  into 
enthusiasm  and  rhapsody  in  its  praise.  Tri 
umphs  and  gorgeous  pageants  have  been  its 
reward  ;  monuments,  on  which  art  has  ex 
hausted  its  skill,  and  opulence  its  treasures, 
have  been  erected  to  perpetuate  a  nation's 
gratitude  and  admiration.  Thus  artificially 
excited,  courage  has  risen  to  an  extraordinary 
and  factitious  degree  of  heroism  ;  and  arrayed 
in  all  the  glorious  "  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
war,"  this  turbulent  quality  has  even  been 
able  to  eclipse  many  of  those  quiet  but  invalua 
ble  virtues,  which  silently  ennoble  the  human 
character,  and  swell  the  tide  of  human  happi 
ness. 

But  if  courage  intrinsically  consists  in  the 
defiance  of  danger  and  pain,  the  life  of  the 
Indian  is  a  continual  exhibition  of  it.  He 
lives  in  a  state  of  perpetual  hostility  and  risk. 
Peril  and  adventure  are  congenial  to  his  nature  ; 
or  rather  seem  necessary  to  arouse  his  faculties 


VOL.   II.  —  II 


• 


,/ 


162 


Cbe  Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


and  to  give  an  interest  to  his  existence.  Sur 
rounded  by  hostile  tribes,  whose  mode  of  war 
fare  is  by  ambush  and  surprisal,  he  is  always 
prepared  for  fight,  and  lives  with  his  weapons 
in  his  hands.  As  the  ship  careers  in  fearful 
singleness  through  the  solitudes  of  ocean, — as 
the  bird  mingles  among  clouds  and  storms,  and 
wings  its  way,  a  mere  speck,  across  the  path 
less  fields  of  air, — so  the  Indian  holds  his 
course,  silent,  solitary,  but  undaunted,  through 
the  boundless  bosom  of  the  wilderness.  His 
expeditions  may  vie  in  distance  and  danger 
with  the  pilgrimage  of  the  devotee,  or  the  cru 
sade  of  the  knight-errant.  He  traverses  vast 
forests,  exposed  to  the  hazards  of  lonely  sick 
ness,  of  lurking  enemies,  and  pining  famine. 
Stormy  lakes,  those  great  inland  seas,  are  no 
obstacles  to  his  wanderings  ;  in  his  light  canoe 
of  bark  he  sports,  like  a  feather,  on  their  waves, 
and  darts,  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow,  down 
the  roaring  rapids  of  the  rivers.  His  very  sub 
sistence  is  snatched  from  the  midst  of  toil  and 
peril.  He  gains  his  food  by  the  hardships  and 
dangers  of  the  chase  ;  he  wraps  himself  in  the 
spoils  of  the  bear,  the  panther,  and  the  buffalo, 
and  sleeps  among  the  thunders  of  the  cataract. 
No  hero  of  ancient  or  modern  days  can  sur 
pass  the  Indian  in  his  lofty  contempt  of  death, 
and  the  fortitude  with  which  he  sustains  its 


{Traits  ot  Indian  Cbaractcr 


163 


cruellest  infliction.  Indeed  we  here  behold  him 
rising  superior  to  the  white  man,  in  conse 
quence  of  his  peculiar  education.  The  latter 
rushes  to  glorious  death  at  the  cannon's  mouth  ; 
the  former  calmly  contemplates  its  approach, 
and  triumphantly  endures  it,  amidst  the  varied 
torments  of  surrounding  foes  and  the  pro 
tracted  agonies  of  fire.  He  even  takes  a  pride 
in  taunting  his  persecutors,  and  provoking 
their  ingenuity  of  torture  ;  and  as  the  devour 
ing  flames  prey  on  his  very  vitals,  and  the 
flesh  shrinks  from  the  sinews,  he  raises  his 
last  song  of  triumph,  breathing  the  defiance 
of  an  unconquered  heart,  and  invoking  the 
spirits  of  his  fathers  to  witness  that  he  dies 
without  a  groan. 

Notwithstanding  the  obloquy  with  which 
the  early  historians  have  overshadowed  the 
characters  of  the  unfortunate  natives,  some 
bright  gleams  occasionally  break  through, 
which  throw  a  degree  of  melancholy  lustre  on 
their  memories.  Facts  are  occasionally  to  be 
met  with  in  the  rude  annals  of  the  eastern 
provinces,  which,  though  recorded  with  the 
coloring  of  prejudice  and  bigotry,  yet  speak 
for  themselves,  and  will  be  dwelt  on  with 
applause  and  sympathy,  when  prejudice  shall 
have  passed  away. 

In  one  of  the  homely  narratives  of  the  Indian 


164 


Cbe  Sfcetcb^oofc 


wars  in  New  England,  there  is  a  touching 
account  of  the  desolation  carried  into  the  tribe 
of  the  Pequod  Indians.  Humanity  shrinks 
from  the  cold-blooded  detail  of  indiscriminate 
butchery.  In  one  place  we  read  of  the  sur- 
prisal  of  an  Indian  fort  in  the  night,  when  the 
wigwams  were  wrapped  in  flames,  and  the 
miserable  inhabitants  shot  down  and  slain  in 
attempting  to  escape,  ' '  all  being  despatched 
and  ended  in  the  course  of  an  hour. ' '  After  a 
series  of  similar  transactions,  ' '  our  soldiers, ' ' 
as  the  historian  piously  observes,  ' '  being  re 
solved  by  God's  assistance  to  make  a  final 
destruction  of  them,"  the  unhappy  savages 
being  hunted  from  their  homes  and  fortresses, 
and  pursued  with  fire  and  sword,  a  scanty,  but 
gallant  band,  the  sad  remnant  of  the  Pequod 
warriors,  with  their  wives  and  children,  took 
refuge  in  a  swamp. 

Burning  with  indignation,  and  rendered 
sullen  by  despair,  with  hearts  bursting  with 
grief  at  the  destruction  of  their  tribe,  and 
spirits  galled  and  sore  at  the  fancied  ignominy 
of  their  defeat,  they  refused  to  ask  their  lives 
at  the  hands  of  an  insulting  foe,  and  preferred 
death  to  submission. 

As  the  night  drew  on  they  were  surrounded 
in  their  dismal  retreat,  so  as  to  render  escape 
impracticable.  Thus  situated,  their  enemy 


.- 


{1- 


Grafts  of  Indian  Cbaractcr 


165 


plied  them  with  shot  all  the  time,  by  which 
means  many  were  killed  and  buried  in  the 
In  the  darkness  and  fog  that  preceded 
the  dawn  of  day,  some  few  broke  through  the 
besiegers  and  escaped  into  the  woods  :  ' '  the 
rest  were  left  to  the  conquerors,  of  which 
many  were  killed  in  the  swamp  like  sullen 
dogs  who  would  rather,  in  their  self-willedness 
and  madness,  sit  still  and  be  shot  through,  or 
cut  to  pieces,"  than  implore  for  mercy.  When 
the  day  broke  upon  this  handful  of  forlorn  but 
dauntless  spirits,  the  soldiers,  we  are  told, 
entering  the  swamp,  "saw  several  heaps  of 
them  sitting  close  together,  upon  whom  they 
discharged  their  pieces,  laden  with  ten  or 
twelve  pistol-bullets  at  a  time,  putting  the 
muzzles  of  the  pieces  under  the  boughs,  within 
a  few  yards  of  them  ;  so  as,  besides  those  that 
were  found  dead,  many  more  were  killed  and 
sunk  into  the  mire,  and  never  were  minded 
more  by  friend  or  foe." 

Can  any  one  read  this  plain  unvarnished 
tale,  without  admiring  the  stern  resolution,  the 
unbending  pride,  the  loftiness  of  spirit,  that 
seemed  to  nerve  the  hearts  of  these  self-taught 
heroes,  and  to  raise  them  above  the  instinctive 
feelings  of  human  nature  ?  When  the  Gauls 
laid  waste  the  city  of  Rome,  they  found  the 
senators  clothed  in  their  robes,  and  seated  with 


. 


stern  tranquillity  in  their  curule  chairs  ;  in  this 
manner  they  suffered  death  without  resistance 
or  even  supplication.  Such  conduct  was,  in 
them,  applauded  as  noble  and  magnanimous  ; 
in  the  hapless  Indian  it  was  reviled  as*  obstinate 
and  sullen  !  How  truly  are  we  the  dupes  of 
show  and  circumstance  !  How  different  is  vir 
tue,  clothed  in  purple  and  enthroned  in  state, 
from  virtue,  naked  and  destitute,  and  perish 
ing  obscurely  in  a  wilderness  ! 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  these  gloomy  pict 
ures.  The  eastern  tribes  have  long  since  dis 
appeared  ;  the  forests  that  sheltered  them 
have  been  laid  low,  and  scarce  any  traces 
remain  of  them  in  the  thickly  settled  States 
of  New  England,  excepting  here  and  there  the 
Indian  name  of  a  village  or  stream.  And  such 
must,  sooner  or  later,  be  the  fate  of  those 
other  tribes  which  skirt  the  frontiers,  and  have 
occasionally  been  inveigled  from  their  forests 
to  mingle  in  the  wars  of  white  men.  In  a 
little  while,  and  they  will  go  the  way  that  their 
brethren  have  gone  before.  The  few  hordes 
which  still  linger  about  the  shores  of  Huron 
and  Superior,  and  the  tributary  streams  of  the 
Mississippi,  will  share  the  fate  of  those  tribes 
that  once  spread  over  Massachusetts  and  Con 
necticut,  and  lorded  it  along  the  proud  banks 
of  the  Hudson  ;  of  that  gigantic  race  said  to 


Crafts  of  InMatl  Cbaracter 


167 


have  existed  on  the  borders  of  the  Susque- 
lianna ;  and  of  those  various  nations  that 
flourished  about  the  Potomac  and  the  Rappa- 
hannock,  and  that  peopled  the  forests  of  the  vast 
valley  of  Shenandoah.  They  will  vanish  like 
a  vapor  from  the  face  of  the  earth  ;  their  very 
history  will  be  lost  in  forgetfulness  ;  and  "  the 
places  that  now  know  them  will  know  them 
no  more  forever."  Or,  if,  perchance,  some 
dubious  memorial  of  them  should  survive,  it 
may  be  in  the  romantic  dreams  of  the  poet,  to 
people  in  imagination  his  glades  and  groves, 
like  the  fauns  and  satyrs  and  sylvan  deities  of 
antiquity.  But  should  he  venture  upon  the 
dark  story  of  their  wrongs  and  wretchedness  ; 
should  he  tell  how  they  were  invaded,  cor 
rupted,  despoiled,  driven  from  their  native 
abodes  and  the  sepulchres  of  their  fathers, 
hunted  like  wild  beasts  about  the  earth,  and 
sent  down  with  violence  and  butchery  to  the 
grave,  posterity  will  either  turn  with  horror 
and  incredulity  from  the  tale,  or  blush  with 
indignation  at  the  inhumanity  of  their  fore 
fathers. — "We  are  driven  back,"  said  an  old 
warrior,  ' '  until  we  can  retreat  no  farther  ; — 
our  hatchets  are  broken,  our  bows  are  snapped, 
our  fires  are  nearly  extinguished  : — a  little  lon 
ger,  and  the  white  man  will  cease  to  persecute 
us — for  we  shall  cease  to  exist !  " 


pbilip  of  pofeanofeet 

AN   INDIAN     MEMOIR. 

As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look  : 
A  soul  that  pity  touch'd,  but  never  shook  : 
Train'd  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier, 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive-  fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 
A.  stoic  of  the  woods— a  man  without  a  tear. 

CAMPBELL. 

IT  is  to  be  regretted  that  those  early  writers, 
who  treated  of  the  discovery  and  settle 
ment  of  America,  have  not  given  us  more 
particular  and  candid  accounts  of  the  re 
markable    characters   that   flourished    in 
savage  life.     The  scanty  anecdotes  which  have 
reached  us  are  full  of  peculiarity  and  interest ; 
they  furnish  us  with  nearer  glimpses  of  human 
nature,  and  show  what  man  is  in  a  compara 
tively   primitive  state,  and  what   he   owes   to 
civilization.     There  is  something  of  the  charm 
of  discovery  in  lighting  upon  these  wild  and 
unexplored  tracts  of  human  nature  ;    in  wit 
nessing,  as  it  were,  the  native  growth  of  moral 
sentiment,  and  perceiving  those  generous  and 


pbtlip  of  pofeanofcct 


romantic  qualities  which  have  been  artificially 
cultivated  by  society,  vegetating  in  spontaneous 
hardihood  and  rude  magnificence. 

In  civilized  life,  where  the  happiness,  and  in 
deed  almost  the  existence,  of  man  depends  so 
much  upon  the  opinion  of  his  fellow-men,  he  is 
constantly  acting  a  studied  part.  The  bold  and 
peculiar  traits  of  native  character  are  refined 
away,  or  softened  down  by  the  levelling  influ 
ence  of  what  is  termed  good  breeding  ;  and  he 
practises  so  many  petty  deceptions,  and  affects 
so  many  generous  sentiments,  for  the  purposes 
of  popularity,  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish 
his  real  from  his  artificial  character.  The  In 
dian,  on  the  contrary,  free  from  the  restraints 
and  refinements  of  polished  life,  and,  in  a  great 
degree,  a  solitary  and  independent  being,  obeys 
the  impulses  of  his  inclination  or  the  dictates 
of  his  judgment ;  and  thus  the  attributes  of  his 
nature,  being  freely  indulged,  grow  singly  great 
and  striking.  Society  is  like  a  lawn,  where 
every  roughness  is  smoothed,  every  bramble 
eradicated,  and  where  the  eye  is  delighted  by 
the  smiling  verdure  of  a  velvet  surface  ;  he, 
however,  who  would  study  nature  in  its  wild- 
ness  and  variety,  must  plunge  into  the  forest, 
must  explore  the  glen,  must  stem  the  torrent, 
and  dare  the  precipice. 

These  reflections  arose  on  casually  looking 


through  a  volume  of  early  colonial  history, 
wherein  are  recorded,  with  great  bitterness,  the 
outrages  of  the  Indians,  and  their  wars  with 
the  settlers  of  New  Kngland.  It  is  painful  to 
perceive  even  from  these  partial  narratives,  how 
the  footsteps  of  civilization  may  be  traced  in 
the  blood  of  the  aborigines  ;  how  easily  the 
colonists  were  moved  to  hostility  by  the  lust  of 
conquest ;  how  merciless  and  exterminating 
was  their  warfare.  The  imagination  shrinks 
at  the  idea,  how  many  intellectual  beings  were 
hunted  from  the  earth,  how  many  brave  and 
noble  hearts,  of  nature's  sterling  coinage,  were 
broken  down  and  trampled  in  the  dust. 

Such  was  the  fate  of  PHILIP  OP  POKANOKET, 
an  Indian  warrior,  whose  name  was  once  a  terror 
throughout  Massachusetts  and  Connecticut. 
He  was  the  most  distinguished  of  a  number  of 
contemporary  Sachems  who  reigned  over  the 
Pequods,  the  Narragansetts,  the  Wampanoags, 
and  the  other  eastern  tribes,  at  the  time  of  the 
first  settlement  of  New  England  ;  a  band  of 
native  untaught  heroes,  who  made  the  most 
generous  struggle  of  which  human  nature  is 
capable  ;  fighting  to  the  last  gasp  in  the  cause 
of  their  country,  without  a  hope  of  victory  or 
a  thought  of  renown.  Worthy  of  an  age  of 
poetry,  and  fit  subjects  for  local  story  and  ro 
mantic  fiction,  they  have  left  scarcely  any  au- 


of  pohanohct 


thentic  traces  on  the  page  of  history,  but  stalk, 
like  gigantic  shadows,  in  the  dim  twilight  of 
tradition.* 

\Vhen  the  pilgrims,  as  the  Plymouth  settlers 
are  called  by  their  descendants,  first  took  refuge 
on  the  shores  of  the  New  World,  from  the  relig 
ious  persecutions  of  the  Old,  their  situation  was 
to  the  last  degree  gloomy  and  disheartening. 
Few  in  number,  and  that  number  rapidly  per 
ishing  away  through  sickness  and  hardships  ; 
surrounded  by  a  howling  wilderness  and  savage 
tribes  exposed  to  the  rigors  of  an  almost  arctic 
winter  and  the  vicissitudes  of  an  ever-shifting 
climate,  their  minds  filled  with  doleful  forebod 
ings,  and  nothing  preserved  them  from  sinking 
into  despondency  but  the  strong  excitement 
of  religious  enthusiasm.  In  this  forlorn  situa 
tion  they  were  visited  by  Massasoit,  chief  Sag 
amore  of  the  Wampanoags,  a  powerful  chief, 
who  reigned  over  a  great  extent  of  country. 
Instead  of  taking  advantage  of  the  scanty 
number  of  the  strangers,  and  expelling  them 
from  his  territories,  into  which  they  had  intru 
ded,  he  seemed  at  once  to  conceive  for  them  a 
generous  friendship,  and  extended  towards 

*  While  correcting  the  proof-sheets  of  this  article, 
the  author  is  informed  that  a  celebrated  English  poet 
has  nearly  finished  an  heroic  poem  on  the  story  of 
Philip  of  Pokanoket. 


172  \LDC  SmetCDsjBOOR 

them  the  rites  of  primitive  hospitality.  He 
came  early  in  the  spring  to  their  settlement  of 
New  Plymouth,  attended  by  a  mere  handful 
of  followers,  entered  into  a  solemn  league  of 
peace  and  amity  ;  sold  them  a  portion  of  the 
soil,  and  promised  to  secure  for  them  the 
good-will  of  his  savage  allies.  Whatever  may 
be  said  of  Indian  perfidy,  it  is  certain  that  the 
integrity  and  good  faith  of  Massasoit  have 
never  been  impeached.  He  continued  a  firm 
and  magnanimous  friend  of  the  white  men  ; 
suffering  them  to  extend  their  possessions,  and 
to  strengthen  themselves  in  the  land ;  and 
betraying  no  jealousy  of  their  increasing  power 
and  prosperity.  Shortly  before  his  death  he 
came  once  more  to  New  Plymouth,  with  his 
son  Alexander,  for  the  purpose  of  renewing 
the  covenant  of  peace,  and  of  securing  it  to 
his  posterity. 

At  this  conference  he  endeavored  to  protect 
the  religion  of  his  forefathers  from  the  en 
croaching  zeal  of  the  missionaries  ;  and  stip 
ulated  that  no  further  attempt  should  be  made 
to  draw  off  his  people  from  their  ancient  faith  ; 
but,  finding  the  English  obstinately  opposed 
to  any  such  condition,  he  mildly  relinquished 
the  demand.  Almost  the  last  act  of  his  life 
was  to  bring  his  two  sons  Alexander  and 
Philip  (as  they  had  been  named  by  the  Eng- 


v 


lish),  to  the  residence  of  a  principal  settler, 
recommending  mutual  kindness  and  confi 
dence  ;  and  entreating  that  the  same  love  and 
amity  which  had  existed  between  the  white 
men  and  himself  might  be  continued  after 
wards  with  his  children.  The  good  old  Sachem 
died  in  peace,  and  was  happily  gathered  to  his 
fathers  before  sorrow  came  upon  his  tribe  ;  his 
children  remained  behind  to  experience  the 
ingratitude  of  white  men. 

His  eldest  son,  Alexander,  succeeded  him. 
He  was  of  a  quick  and  impetuous  temper,  and 
proudly  tenacious  of  his  hereditary  rights  and 
dignity.  The  intrusive  policy  and  dictatorial 
conduct  of  the  strangers  excited  his  indigna 
tion  ;  and  he  beheld  with  uneasiness  their 
exterminating  wars  with  the  neighboring 
tribes.  He  was  doomed  soon  to  incur  their 
hostility,  being  accused  of  plotting  with  the 
Narragansetts  to  rise  against  the  English  and 
drive  them  from  the  land.  It  is  impossible  to 
say  whether  this  accusation  was  warranted  by 
facts  or  was  grounded  on  mere  suspicion.  It 
is  evident,  however,  by  the  violent  and  over 
bearing  measures  of  the  settlers,  that  they  had 
by  this  time  begun  to  feel  conscious  of  the 
rapid  increase  of  their  power,  and  to  grow  harsh 
and  inconsiderate  in  their  treatment  of  the 
natives.  They  despatched  an  armed  force  to 


I  •• 


174 


Cbe  Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


seize  upon  Alexander,  and  to  bring  him  before 
their  courts.  He  was  traced  to  his  woodland 
haunts,  and  surprised  at  a  hunting-house, 
where  he  was  reposing  with  a  band  of  his  fol 
lowers,  unarmed,  after  the  toils  of  the  chase. 
The  suddenness  of  his  arrest,  and  the  outrage 
offered  to  his  sovereign  dignity,  so  preyed  upon 
the  irascible  feelings  of  this  proud  savage,  as 
to  throw  him  into  a  raging  fever.  He  was  per 
mitted  to  return  home,  on  condition  of  sending 
his  son  as  a  pledge  for  his  reappearance ; 
but  the  blow  he  had  received  was  fatal,  and 
before  he  had  reached  his  home  he  fell  a  victim 
to  the  agonies  of  a  wounded  spirit. 

The  successor  of  Alexander  was  Metacomet, 
or  King  Philip,  as  he  was  called  by  the  settlers, 
on  account  of  his  lofty  spirit  and  ambitious 
temper.  These,  together  with  his  well-known 
energy  and  enterprise,  had  rendered  him  an 
object  of  great  jealousy  and  apprehension,  and 
he  was  accused  of  having  always  cherished  a 
secret  and  implacable  hostility  towards  the 
whites.  Such  may  very  probably,  and  very 
naturally,  have  been  the  case.  He  considered 
them  as  originally  but  mere  intruders  into  the 
country,  who  had  presumed  upon  indulgence, 
and  were  extending  an  influence  baneful  to 
savage  life.  He  saw  the  whole  race  of  his 
countrymen  melting  before  them  from  the  face 


Ipbilin  of  pofcanohct 


175 


of  the  earth  ;  their  territories  slipping  from 
their  hands,  and  their  tribes  becoming  feeble, 
scattered,  and  dependent.  It  may  be  said  that 
the  soil  was  originally  purchased  by  the 
settlers  ;  but  who  does  not  know  the  nature  of 
Indian  purchases,  in  the  early  periods  of  coloni 
zation  ?  The  Europeans  always  made  thrifty 
bargains  through  their  superior  adroitness  in 
traffic,  and  they  gained  vast  accessions  of  terri 
tory  by  easily  provoked  hostilities.  An  un 
cultivated  savage  is  never  a  nice  inquirer  into 
the  refinements  of  law,  by  which  an  injury 
may  be  gradually  and  legally  inflicted.  Lead 
ing  facts  are  all  by  which  he  judges  ;  and  it 
was  enough  for  Philip  to  know  that  before  the 
intrusion  of  the  Europeans  his  countrymen 
were  lords  of  the  soil,  and  that  now  they  were 
becoming  vagabonds  in  the  land  of  their 
fathers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  his  feelings  of 
general  hostility,  and  his  particular  indigna 
tion  at  the  treatment  of  his  brother,  he  sup 
pressed  them  for  the  present,  renewed  the  con 
tract  with  the  settlers,  and  resided  peaceably 
for  many  years  at  Pokanoket,  or,  as  it  was 
called  by  the  English,  Mount  Hope,*  the 
ancient  seat  of  dominion  of  his  tribe.  Suspi 
cions,  however,  which  were  at  first  but  vague 
*  Now  Bristol,  Rhode  Island. 


5fcetcb<fiSoofc 


and  indefinite,  began  to  acquire  form  and  sub 
stance  ;  and  he  was  at  length  charged  with  at 
tempting  to  instigate  the  various  eastern  tribes 
to  rise  at  once,  and,  by  a  simultaneous  effort, 
to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  their  oppressors.  It  is 
difficult  at  this  period  to  assign  the  proper 
credit  due  to  these  early  accusations  against 
the  Indians.  There  was  a  proneness  to  sus 
picion,  and  an  aptness  to  acts  of  violence,  on 
the  part  of  the  whites,  that  gave  weight  and 
importance  to  every  idle  tale.  Informers 
abounded  where  talebearing  met  with  counte 
nance  and  reward  and  the  sword  was  readily 
unsheathed  when  its  success  was  certain,  and 
it  carved  out  empire. 

The  only  positive  evidence  on  record  against 
Philip  is  the  accusation  of  one  Sausaman,  a 
renegado  Indian,  whose  natural  cunning  had 
been  quickened  by  a  partial  education  which 
he  had  received  among  the  settlers.  He 
changed  his  faith  and  his  allegiance  two  or 
three  times,  with  a  facility  that  evinced  the 
looseness  of  his  principles.  He  had  acted  for 
some  time  as  Philip's  confidential  secretary  and 
counsellor,  and  had  enjoyed  his  bounty  and 
protection.  Finding,  however,  that  the  clouds 
of  adversity  were  gathering  round  his  patron, 
he  abandoned  his  service  and  went  over  to 
the  whites  ;  and,  in  order  to  gain  their  favor, 


pbilip  of  pofcancfcet 


charged  his  former  benefactor  with  plotting 
against  their  safety.  A  rigorous  investigation 
took  place.  Philip  and  several  of  his  subjects 
submitted  to  be  examined,  but  nothing  was 
proved  against  them.  The  settlers,  however, 
had  now  gone  too  far  to  retract ;  they  had  pre 
viously  determined  that  Philip  was  a  danger 
ous  neighbor  ;  they  had  publicly  evinced  their 
distrust ;  and  had  done  enough  to  insure  his 
hostility  ;  according,  therefore,  to  the  usual 
mode  of  reasoning  in  these  cases,  his  destruc 
tion  had  become  necessary  to  their  security. 
Sausaman,  the  treacherous  informer,  was 
shortly  afterwards  found  dead,  in  a  pond, 
having  fallen  a  victim  to  the  vengeance  of  his 
tribe.  Three  Indians,  one  of  whom  was  a 
friend  and  counsellor  of  Philip,  were  appre 
hended  and  tried,  and,  on  the  testimony  of  one 
very  questionable  witness,  wrere  condemned 
and  executed  as  murderers. 

This  treatment  of  his  subjects,  and  ignomin 
ious  punishment  of  his  friend,  outraged  the 
pride  and  exasperated  the  passions  of  Philip. 
The  bolt  which  had  fallen  thus  at  his  very  feet 
awakened  him  to  the  gathering  storm,  and  he 
determined  to  trust  himself  no  longer  in  the 
power  of  the  white  men.  The  fate  of  his  in 
sulted  and  broken-hearted  brother  still  rankled 
in  his  mind  ;  and  he  had  a  further  warning  in 


VOL.   II    —12 


178 


,-;  ^  V^-r- 

5fcetcb=:fl3oofc 


the  tragical  story  of  Miantonimo,  a  great  Sa 
chem  of  the  Narragansetts,  who,  after  manfully 
facing  his  accusers  before  a  tribunal  of  the 
colonists,  exculpating  himself  from  a  charge  of 
conspiracy,  and  receiving  assurances  of  amity, 
had  been  perfidiously  despatched  at  their  insti 
gation.  Philip,  therefore,  gathered  his  fighting- 
men  about  him  ;  persuaded  all  strangers  that 
he  could  to  join  his  cause  ;  sent  the  women 
and  children  to  the  Narragansetts  for  safety  ; 
and  wherever  he  appeared,  was  continually 
surrounded  by  armed  warriors. 

When  the  two  parties  were  thus  in  a  state  of 
distrust  and  irritation,  the  least  spark  was  suffi 
cient  to  .set  them  in  a  flame.  The  Indians,  hav 
ing  weapons  in  their  hands,  grew  mischievous, 
and  committed  various  petty  depredations.  In 
one  of  their  maraudings  a  warrior  was  fired  on 
and  killed  by  a  settler.  This  was  a  signal  for 
open  hostilities  ;  the  Indians  pressed  to  revenge 
the  death  of  their  comrade,  and  the  alarm  of 
war  resounded  through  the  Plymouth  colony. 

In  the  early  chronicles  of  these  dark  and 
melancholy  times  we  meet  with  many  indica 
tions  of  the  diseased  state  of  the  public  mind. 
The  gloom  of  religious  abstraction,  and  the 
wildness  of  their  situation,  among  the  trackless 
forests  and  savage  tribes,  had  disposed  the 
colonists  to  superstitious  fancies,  and  had  filled 


pbtlip  of  pofcanofect 


their  imaginations  with  the  frightful  chimeras 
of  witchcraft  and  spectrology.  They  were 
much  given  also  to  a  belief  in  omens.  The 
troubles  with  Philip  and  his  Indians  were  pre 
ceded,  we  are  told,  by  a  variety  of  those  awful 
warnings  which  forerun  great  and  public  calam 
ities.  The  perfect  form  of  an  Indian  bow  ap 
peared  in  the  air  of  New  Plymouth,  which  was 
looked  upon  by  the  inhabitants  as  a  "  prodigi 
ous  apparition."  At  Hadley,  Northampton, 
and  other  towns  in  their  neighborhood,  "was 
heard  the  report  of  a  great  piece  of  ordnance, 
with  a  shaking  of  the  earth  and  a  considerable 
echo."  *  Others  were  alarmed  on  a  still,  sun 
shiny  morning  by  the  discharge  of  guns  and 
muskets  ;  bullets  seemed  to  whistle  past  them, 
and  the  noise  of  drums  resounded  in  the  air, 
seeming  to  pass  away  to  the  westward  ;  others 
fancied  that  they  heard  the  galloping  of  horses 
over  their  heads  ;  and  certain  monstrous  births, 
which  took  place  about  the  time,  filled  the 
superstitious  in  some  towns  with  doleful  fore 
bodings.  Many  of  these  portentous  sights  and 
sounds  may  be  ascribed  to  natural  phenomena  : 
to  the  northern  lights  which  occur  vividly  in 
those  latitudes  ;  the  meteors  which  explode  in 
the  air  ;  the  casual  rushing  of  a  blast  through 
the  top  branches  of  the  forest  ;  the  crash  of 
*  The  Rev.  Increase  Mather's  History. 


1 80 


Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


fallen  trees  or  disrupted  rocks  ;  and  to  those 
other  uncouth  sounds  and  echoes  which  will 
sometimes  strike  the  ear  so  strangely  amidst 
the  profound  stillness  of  woodland  solitudes. 
These  may  have  startled  some  melancholy 
imaginations,  may  have  been  exaggerated  by 
the  love  for  the  marvellous,  and  listened  to  with 
that  avidity  with  which  we  devour  whatever 
is  fearful  and  mysterious.  The  universal  cur 
rency  of  these  superstitious  fancies,  and  the 
grave  record  made  of  them  by  one  of  the  learned 
men  of  the  day,  are  strongly  characteristic  of 
the  times. 

The  nature  of  the  contest  that  ensued  was 
such  as  too  often  distinguishes  the  warfare 
between  civilized  men  and  savages.  On  the 
part  of  the  whites  it  was  conducted  with  supe 
rior  skill  and  success  ;  but  with  a  wastefulness 
of  the  blood,  and  a  disregard  of  the  "natural 
rights  of  their  antagonists  ;  on  the  part  of  the 
Indians  it  was  waged  with  the  desperation  of 
men  fearless  of  death,  and  who  had  nothing  to 
expect  from  peace,  but  humiliation,  depend 
ence,  and  decay. 

The  events  of  the  war  are  transmitted  to  us 
by  a  worthy  clergyman  of  the  time,  who  dwells 
with  horror  and  indignation  on  every  hostile 
act  of  the  Indians,  however  justifiable,  whilst 
he  mentions  with  applause  the  most  sanguinary 


pbilip  ot  pohanohct 


181 


atrocities  of  the  whites.  Philip  is  reviled  as  a 
murderer  and  a  traitor  ;  without  considering 
that  he  was  a  true-born  prince,  gallantly  fight 
ing  at  the  head  of  his  subjects  to  avenge  the 
wrongs  of  his  family  ;  to  retrieve  the  tottering 
power  of  his  line  ;  and  to  deliver  his  native 
land  from  the  oppression  of  usurping  strangers. 

The  project  of  a  wide  and  simultaneous  re 
volt,  if  such  had  really  been  formed,  was  worthy 
of  a  capacious  mind,  and,  had  it  not  been  pre 
maturely  discovered,  might  have  been  over 
whelming  in  its  consequences.  The  war  that 
actually  broke  out  was  but  a  war  of  detail,  a 
mere  succession  of  casual  exploits  and  uncon 
nected  enterprises.  Still  it  sets  forth  the  mili 
tary  genius  and  daring  prowess  of  Philip  ;  and 
wherever,  in  the  prejudiced  and  passionate  nar 
rations  that  have  been  given  of  it,  we  can 
arrive  at  simple  facts,  we  find  him  displaying 
a  vigorous  mind,  a  fertility  of  expedients,  a 
contempt  of  suffering  and  hardship,  and  an 
unconquerable  resolution,  that  command  our 
sympathy  and  applause. 

Driven  from  his  paternal  domains  at  Mount 
Hope,  he  threw  himself  into  the  depths  of 
those  vast  and  trackless  forests  that  skirted 
the  settlements,  and  were  almost  impervious  to 
anything  but  a  wild  beast,  or  an  Indian.  Here 
he  gathered  together  his  forces,  like  a  storm 


1 


accumulating  its  stores  of  mischief  in  the 
bosom  of  the  thunder-cloud,  and  would  sud 
denly  emerge  at  a  time  and  place  least  ex 
pected,  carrying  havoc  and  dismay  into  the 
villages.  There  were  now  and  then  indica 
tions  of  these  impending  ravages,  that  filled 
the  minds  of  the  colonists  with  awe  and  ap 
prehension.  The  report  of  a  distant  gun 
would  perhaps  be  heard  from  the  solitary 
woodland,  where  there  was  known  to  be  no 
white  man  ;  the  cattle  which  had  been  wan 
dering  in  the  woods  would  sometimes  return 
home  wounded  ;  or  an  Indian  or  two  would 
be  seen  lurking  about  the  skirts  of  the  forests, 
and  suddenly  disappearing  ;  as  the  lightning 
will  sometimes  be  seen  playing  silently  about 
the  edge  of  the  cloud  that  is  brewing  up  the 
tempest. 

Though  sometimes  pursued  and  even  sur 
rounded  by  the  settlers,  yet  Philip  as  often  es 
caped  almost  miraculously  from  their  toils,  and 
plunging  into  the  wilderness,  would  be  lost  to 
all  search  or  inquiry,  until  he  again  emerged 
at  some  far  distant  quarter,  laying  the  country 
desolate.  Among  his  strongholds  were  the 
great  swamps  or  morasses,  which  extend  in 
some  parts  of  New  England ;  composed  of 
loose  bogs  of  deep  black  mud  ;  perplexed  with 
thickets,  brambles,  rank  weeds,  the  shattered 


ot  pohancfect 


183 


<  ^ 


and  mouldering  trunks  of  fallen  trees,  over 
shadowed  by  lugubrious  hemlocks.  The  un 
certain  footing  and  the  tangled  mazes  of  these 
shaggy  wilds  rendered  them  almost  impene 
trable  to  the  white  man,  though  the  Indian 
could  thrid  their  labyrinths  with  the  agility  of 
a  deer.  Into  one  of  these,  the  great  swamp  of 
Pocasset  Neck,  was  Philip  once  driven  with  a 
band  of  his  followers.  The  English  did  not 
dare  to  pursue  him,  fearing  to  venture  into 
these  dark  and  frightful  recesses,  where  they 
might  perish  in  fens  and  miry  pits,  or  be  shot 
down  by  lurking  foes.  They  therefore  in 
vested  the  entrance  to  the  Neck,  and  began  to 
build  a  fort,  with  the  thought  of  starving  out 
the  foe  ;  but  Philip  and  his  warriors  wafted 
themselves  on  a  raft  over  an  arm  of  the  sea,  in 
the  dead  of  night,  leaving  the  women  and  chil 
dren  behind,  and  escaped  away  to  the  west 
ward,  kindling  the  flames  of  war  among  the 
tribes  of  Massachusetts  and  the  Nipmuck 
country,  and  threatening  the  colony  of  Con 
necticut. 

In  this  way  Philip  became  a  theme  of  uni 
versal  apprehension.  The  mystery  in  which 
he  was  enveloped  exaggerated  his  real  terrors. 
He  was  an  evil  that  walked  in  darkness,  whose 
coming  none  could  foresee,  and  against  which 
none  knew  when  to  be  on  the  alert.  The  whole 


Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


country  abounded  with  rumors  and  alarms. 
Philip  seemed  almost  possessed  of  ubiquity  ; 
for,  in  whatever  part  of  the  widely  extended 
frontier  an  eruption  from  the  forest  took  place, 
Philip  was  said  to  be  its  leader.  Many  super 
stitious  notions  also  were  circulated  concerning 
him.  He  was  said  to  deal  in  necromancy,  and 
to  be  attended  by  an  old  Indian  witch  or 
prophetess,  wrhom  he  consulted,  and  who  as 
sisted  him  by  her  charms  and  incantations. 
This  indeed  was  frequently  the  case  with  In 
dian  chiefs  ;  either  through  their  own  credu 
lity,  or  to  act  upon  that  of  their  followers  ; 
and  the  influence  of  the  prophet  and  the 
dreamer  over  Indian  superstition  has  been 
fully  evidenced  in  recent  instances  of  savage 
warfare. 

At  the  time  that  Philip  effected  his  escape 
from  Pocasset,  his  fortunes  were  in  a  desperate 
condition.  His  forces  had  been  thinned  by  re 
peated  fights,  and  he  had  lost  almost  the  whole 
of  his  resources.  In  this  time  of  adversity  he 
found  a  faithful  friend  in  Canonchet,  chief 
Sachem  of  all  the  Narragansetts.  He  was  the 
son  and  heir  of  Miantonimo,  the  great  Sachem 
who,  as  already  mentioned,  after  an  honorable 
acquittal  of  the  charge  of  conspiracy,  had  been 
privately  put  to  death  at  the  perfidious  insti 
gations  of  the  settlers.  "He  was  the  heir," 


ot  pohanohct 


185 


says  the  old  chronicler,  "of  all  his  father's 
pride  and  insolence,  as  well  as  of  his  malice 
towards  the  English  ' '  ; — he  certainly  was  the 
heir  of  his  insults  and  injuries,  and  the  legiti 
mate  avenger  of  his  murder.  Though  he  had 
forborne  to  take  an  active  part  in  this  hopeless 
war,  yet  he  received  Philip  and  his  broken 
forces  with  open  arms,  and  gave  them  the  most 
generous  countenance  and  support.  This  at 
once  drew  upon  him  the  hostility  of  the  English, 
and  it  was  determined  to  strike  a  signal  blow 
that  should  involve  both  the  Sachems  in  one 
common  ruin.  A  great  force  was,  therefore, 
gathered  together  from  Massachusetts,  Ply 
mouth,  and  Connecticut,  and  was  sent  into  the 
Narragansett  country  in  the  depth  of  winter, 
when  the  swamps,  being  frozen  and  leafless, 
could  be  traversed  with  comparative  facility, 
and  would  no  longer  afford  dark  and  impene 
trable  fastnesses  to  the  Indians. 

Apprehensive  of  attack,  Canonchet  had  con 
veyed  the  greater  part  of  his  stores,  together 
with  the  old,  the  infirm,  the  women  and  chil 
dren  of  his  tribe,  to  a  strong  fortress,  where  he 
and  Philip  had  likewise  drawn  up  the  flower 
of  their  forces.  This  fortress,  deemed  by  the 
Indians  impregnable,  was  situated  upon  a  ris 
ing  mound,  or  kind  of  island,  of  five  or  six 
acres,  in  the  midst  of  a  swamp  ;  it  was  con- 


/ 


structed  with  a  degree  of  judgment  and  skill 
vastly  superior  to  what  is  usually  displayed  in 
Indian  fortification,  and  indicative  of  the  mar 
tial  genius  of  these  two  chieftains. 

Guided  by  a  renegado  Indian,  the  English 
penetrated,  through  December  snows,  to  this 
stronghold,  and  came  upon  the  garrison  by 
surprise.  The  fight  was  fierce  and  tumultuous. 
The  assailants  were  repulsed  in  their  first  at 
tack,  and  several  of  their  bravest  officers  were 
shot  down  in  the  act  of  storming  the  fortress 
sword  in  hand.  The  assault  was  renewed 
with  greater  success.  A  lodgment  was  effected. 
The  Indians  were  driven  from  one  post  to  an 
other.  They  disputed  their  ground  inch  by 
inch,  fighting  with  the  fury  of  despair.  Most 
of  their  veterans  were  cut  to  pieces  ;  and  after 
a  long  and  bloody  battle,  Philip  and  Canon- 
chet,  with  a  handful  of  surviving  warriors, 
retreated  from  the  fort,  and  took  refuge  in  the 
thickets  of  the  surrounding  forest. 

The  victors  set  fire  to  the  wigwams  and  the 
fort  ;  the  whole  was  soon  in  a  blaze  ;  many  of 
the  old  men,  the  women,  and  the  children  per 
ished  in  the  flames.  This  last  outrage  over 
came  even  the  stoicism  of  the  savage.  The 
neighboring  woods  resounded  with  the  yells  of 
rage  and  despair,  uttered  by  the  fugitive  war 
riors,  as  they  beheld  the  destruction  of  their 


pbtlip  of  pofcanofect 


187 


dwellings,  and  heard  the  agonizing  cries  of 
their  wives  and  offspring.  "  The  burning  of 
the  wigwams,"  says  a  contemporary  writer, 
"  the  shrieks  and  cries  of  women  and  children, 
and  the  yelling  of  the  warriors,  exhibited  a 
most  horrible  and  affecting  scene,  so  that  it 
greatly  moved  some  of  the  soldiers."  The 
same  writer  cautiously  adds,  ' '  they  were  in 
much  doubt  then,  and  afterwards  seriously 
inquired,  whether  burning  their  enemies  alive 
could  be  consistent  with  humanity  and  the 
benevolent  principles  of  the  Gospel."  * 

The  fate  of  the  brave  and  generous  Canon- 
chet  is  worthy  of  particular  mention  :  the  last 
scene  of  his  life  is  one  of  the  noblest  instances 
on  record  of  Indian  magnanimity. 

Broken  down  in  his  power  and  resources  by 
this  signal  defeat,  yet  faithful  to  his  ally,  and 
to  the  hapless  cause  which  he  had  espoused, 
he  rejected  all  overtures  of  peace,  offered  on 
condition  of  betraying  Philip  and  his  follow 
ers,  and  declared  that  ' '  he  would  fight  it  out 
to  the  last  man,  rather  than  become  a  servant 
to  the  English."  His  home  being  destroyed  ; 
his  country  harassed  and  laid  waste  by  the 
incursions  of  the  conquerors  ;  he  was  obliged 
to  wander  away  to  the  banks  of  the  Connecti 
cut  ;  where  he  formed  a  raltying  point  to  the 
*  MS.  of  the  Rev.  W.  Ruggles. 


f  . 


Sfcetcb<fi5ook 


whole  body  of  western  Indians,  and  laid  waste 
several  of  the  English  settlements. 

Early  in  the  spring  he  departed  on  a  haz 
ardous  expedition,  with  only  thirty  chosen 
men,  to  penetrate  to  Seaconck,  in  the  vicinity 
of  Mount  Hope,  and  to  procure  seed-corn  to 
plant  for  the  sustenance  of  his  troops.  This 
little  band  of  adventurers  had  passed  safely 
through  the  Pequod  country,  and  were  in  the 
centre  of  the  Narragansett,  resting  at  some 
wigwams  near  Pawtucket  River,  when  an 
alarm  was  given  of  an  approaching  enemy. 
Having  but  seven  men  by  him  at  the  time, 
Canonchet  despatched  two  of  them  to  the  top 
of  a  neighboring  hill,  to  bring  intelligence  of 
the  foe. 

Panic-struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  troop 
of  English  and  Indians  rapidly  advancing,  they 
fled  in  breathless  terror  past  their  chieftain, 
without  stopping  to  inform  him  of  the  danger. 
Canonchet  sent  another  scout,  who  did  the 
same.  He  then  sent  two  more,  one  of  whom, 
hurrying  back  in  confusion  and  affright,  told 
him  that  the  whole  British  army  was  at  hand. 
Canonchet  saw  there  was  no  choice  but  imme 
diate  flight.  He  attempted  to  escape  round 
the  hill,  but  was  perceived  and  hotly  pursued 
by  the  hostile  Indians,  and  a  few  of  the  fleet 
est  of  the  English.  Finding  the  swiftest  pur- 


of  pohanehct 


suer  close  upon  his  heels,  he  threw  off,  first 
his  blanket,  then  his  silver-laced  coat,  and  belt 
of  peag,  by  which  his  enemies  knew  him  to  be 
Canonchet,  and  redoubled  the  eagerness  of 
pursuit. 

At  length,  in  dashing  through  the  river,  his 
foot  slipped  upon  a  stone,  and  he  fell  so  deep 
as  to  wet  his  gun.  This  accident  so  struck 
him  with  despair,  that,  as  he  afterwards  con 
fessed,  "  his  heart  and  his  bowels  turned  within 
him,  and  he  became  like  a  rotten  stick,  void 
of  strength." 

To  such  a  degree  was  he  unnerved,  that, 
being  seized  by  a  Pequod  Indian  within  a  short 
distance  of  the  river,  he  made  no  resistance, 
though  a  man  of  great  vigor  of  body  and  bold 
ness  of  heart.  But  on  being  made  prisoner 
the  whole  pride  of  his  spirit  arose  within  him  ; 
and  from  that  moment,  we  find,  in  the  anecdotes 
given  by  his  enemies,  nothing  but  repeated 
flashes  of  elevated  and  prince-like  heroism. 
Being  questioned  by  one  of  the  English  who 
first  came  up  with  him,  and  who  had  not 
attained  his  twenty-second  year,  the  proud- 
hearted  warrior,  looking  with  lofty  contempt 
upon  his  youthful  countenance,  replied,  "  You 
are  a  child  ;  you  cannot  understand  matters  of 
war ;  let  your  brother  or  your  chief  come, — 
him  will  I  answer." 


i  go 


Cbe  SfeetcbOBoofc 


Though  repeated  offers  were  made  to  him  of 
his  life,  on  condition  of  submitting  with  his 
nation  to  the  English,  yet  he  rejected  them 
with  disdain,  and  refused  to  send  any  proposals 
of  the  kind  to  the  great  body  of  his  subjects  ; 
saying,  that  he  knew  none  of  them  would 
comply.  Being  reproached  with  his  breach  of 
faith  towards  the  whites, — his  boast  that  he 
would  not  deliver  up  a  Wampanoag  nor  the 
paring  of  a  Wampanoag' s  nail, — and  his 
threat  that  he  would  burn  the  English  alive  in 
their  houses, — he  disdained  to  justify  himself, 
haughtily  answering  that  others  were  as  for 
ward  for  the  war  as  himself,  and  "  he  desired 
to  hear  no  more  thereof." 

So  noble  and  unshaken  a  spirit,  so  true  a 
fidelity  to  his  cause  and  his  friend,  might  have 
touched  the  feelings  of  the  generous  and  the 
brave ;  but  Canonchet  was  an  Indian,  a  being 
towards  whom  war  had  no  courtesy,  humanity 
no  law,  religion  no  compassion  ; — he  was  con 
demned  to  die.  The  last  words  of  him  that 
are  recorded  are  worthy  the  greatness  of  his 
soul.  When  sentence  of  death  was  passed 
upon  him,  he  observed  "  that  he  liked  it  well, 
for  he  should  die  before  his  heart  was  soft,  or 
he  had  spoken  anything  unworthy  of  himself. ' ' 
His  enemies  gave  him  the  death  of  a  soldier, 


Hiss 


of  pohanofect 


191 


for  he  was  shot  at  Stoningham,  by  three  young 
Sachems  of  his  own  rank. 

The  defeat  at  the  Narragansett  fortress,  and 
the  death  of  Canonchet,  were  fatal  blows  to 
the  fortunes  of  King  Philip.  He  made  an 
ineffectual  attempt  to  raise  a  head  of  war,  by 
stirring  up  the  Mohawks  to  take  arms  ;  but 
though  possessed  of  the  native  talents  of  a 
statesman,  his  arts  were  counteracted  by  the 
superior  arts  of  his  enlightened  enemies,  and 
the  terror  of  their  warlike  skill  began  to  sub 
due  the  resolution  of  the  neighboring  tribes. 
The  unfortunate  chieftain  saw  himself  daily 
stripped  of  power,  and  his  ranks  rapidly  thin 
ning  around  him.  Some  were  suborned  by 
the  whites  ;  others  fell  victims  to  hunger  and 
fatigue,  and  to  the  frequent  attacks  by  which 
they  were  harassed.  His  stores  were  all  cap 
tured  ;  his  chosen  friends  were  swept  away  from 
before  his  eyes  ;  his  uncle  was  shot  down  by 
his  side  ;  his  sister  was  carried  into  captivity  ; 
and  in  one  of  his  narrow  escapes  he  was  com 
pelled  to  leave  his  beloved  wife  and  only  son 
to  the  mercy  of  the  enemy.  ' '  His  ruin, ' '  says 
the  historian,  "being  thus  gradually  carried 
on,  his  misery  was  not  prevented,  but  aug 
mented  thereby ;  being  himself  made  ac 
quainted  with  the  sense  and  experimental 


192 


feeling  of  the  captivity  of  his  children,  loss  of 
friends,  slaughter  of  his  subjects,  bereavement 
of  all  family  relations,  and  being  stripped  of  all 
outward  comforts,  before  his  own  life  should 
be  taken  away." 

To  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  misfortunes, 
his  own  followers  began  to  plot  against  his  life, 
that  by  sacrificing  him  they  might  purchase 
dishonorable  safety.  Through  treachery  a 
number  of  his  faithful  adherents,  the  subjects 
of  Wetamoe,  an  Indian  princess  of  Pocasset,  a 
near  kinswoman  and  confederate  of  Philip, 
were  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 
Wetamoe  was  among  them  at  the  time,  and 
attempted  to  make  her  escape  by  crossing  a 
neighboring  river  :  either  exhausted  by  swim 
ming,  or  starved  by  cold  and  hunger,  she  wras 
found  dead  and  naked  near  the  water-side. 
But  persecution  ceased  not  at  the  grave.  Even 
death,  the  refuge  of  the  wretched,  where  the 
wicked  commonly  cease  from  troubling,  was 
no  protection  to  this  outcast  female,  whose 
great  crime  was  affectionate  fidelity  to  her 
kinsman  and  her  friends.  Her  corpse  was  the 
object  of  unmanly  and  dastardly  vengeance  ; 
the  head  was  severed  from  the  body  and  set 
upon  a  pole,  and  was  thus  exposed  at  Taunton, 
to  the  view  of  her  captive  subjects.  They 
immediately  recognized  the  features  of  their 


pbilip  of  pofcanofcet 


unfortunate  queen,  and  were  so  affected  at  this 
barbarous  spectacle,  that  we  are  told  they 
broke  forth  into  the  "  most  horrid  and  diaboli 
cal  lamentations." 

However  Philip  had  borne  up  against  the 
complicated  miseries  and  misfortunes  that  sur 
rounded  him,  the  treachery  of  his  followers 
seemed  to  wring  his  heart  and  reduce  him  to 
despondency.  It  is  said  that  "he  never  re 
joiced  afterwards,  nor  had  success  in  any  of  his 
designs."  The  spring  of  hope  was  broken,— 
the  ardor  of  enterprise  was  extinguished, — he 
looked  around,  and  all  was  danger  and  dark 
ness  ;  there  was  no  eye  to  pity,  nor  any  arm 
that  could  bring  deliverance.  With  a  scanty 
band  of  followers,  who  still  remained  true  to  his 
desperate  fortunes,  the  unhappy  Philip  wan 
dered  back  to  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  the 
ancient  dwelling  of  his  fathers.  Here  he 
lurked  about,  like  a  spectre,  among  the  scenes 
of  former  power  and  prosperity,  now  bereft  of 
home,  of  family,  and  friend.  There  needs  no 
better  picture  of  his  destitute  and  piteous  situ 
ation  than  that  furnished  by  the  homely  pen  of 
the  chronicler,  who  is  unwarily  enlisting  the 
feelings  of  the  reader  in  favor  of  the  hapless 
warrior  whom  he  reviles.  ' '  Philip, ' '  he  says, 
"  like  a  savage  wild  beast,  having  been  hunted 
by  the  English  forces  through  the  woods,  above 


I94 


Cbe  Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


a  hundred  miles  backward  and  forward,  at  last 
was  driven  to  his  own  den  upon  Mount  Hope, 
where  he  retired,  with  a  few  of  his  best  friends, 
into  a  swamp,  which  proved  but  a  prison  to 
keep  him  fast  till  the  messengers  of  death 
came  by  divine  permission  to  execute  vengeance 
upon  him." 

Even  in  this  last  refuge  of  desperation  and 
despair,  a  sullen  grandeur  gathers  round  his 
memory.  We  picture  him  to  ourselves  seated 
among  his  careworn  followers,  brooding  in 
silence  over  his  blasted  fortunes,  and  acquiring 
a  savage  sublimity  from  the  wildness  and 
dreariness  of  his  lurking-place.  Defeated,  but 
not  dismayed — crushed  to  the  earth,  but  not 
humiliated — he  seemed  to  grow  more  haughty 
beneath  disaster,  and  to  experience  a  fierce  sat 
isfaction  in  draining  the  last  dregs  of  bitterness, 
lyittle  minds  are  tamed  and  subdued  by  misfor 
tune  ;  but  great  minds  rise  above  it.  The  very 
idea  of  submission  awakened  the  fury  of  Philip, 
and  he  smote  to  death  one  of  his  followers  who 
proposed  an  expedient  of  peace.  The  brother 
of  the  victim  made  his  escape,  and  in  revenge 
betrayed  the  retreat  of  his  chieftain.  A  body 
of  white  men  and  Indians  were  immediately 
despatched  to  the  swamp  where  Philip  lay 
crouched,  glaring  with  fury  and  despair.  Be 
fore  he  was  aware  of  their  approach,  they  had 

^ 


of  pofcanofcct 


195 


begun  to  surround  him.     In  a  little  while  he 
saw  five  of  his  trustiest  followers  laid  dead  at 
his  feet ;    all  resistance  was  vain  ;   he  rushed 
forth  from  his   covert,  and   made  a  headlong 
attempt  to  escape,  but  was  shot  through  the 
heart  by  a  renegade  Indian  of  his  own  nation. 
Such  is  the  scanty  story  of  the  brave,  but  un 
fortunate  King  Philip  ;  persecuted  while  living, 
slandered  and  dishonored  when  dead.     If,  how 
ever,  we  consider  even  the  prejudiced  anecdotes 
furnished  us  by  his  enemies,  we  may  perceive 
in  them  traces  of  amiable  and  lofty  character 
sufficient  to  awaken  sympathy  for  his  fate,  and 
respect  for  his  memory.      We  find  that,  amidst 
all  the  harassing  cares  and  ferocious  passions 
of  constant  warfare,  he  was  alive  to  the  softer 
feelings  of  connubial  love  and  paternal  tender 
ness,  and  to  the  generous  sentiment  of  friend 
ship.     The  captivity  of  his  "beloved  wife  and 
only  son"  are  mentioned  with  exultation  as 
causing  him  poignant  misery  :    the  death  of 
any  near  friend  is  triumphantly  recorded  as  a 
new  blow  on  his  sensibilities  ;  but  the  treach 
ery  and  desertion  of  many  of  his  followers,  in 
whose   affections   he   had  confided,  is  said  to 
have  desolated  his  heart,  and  to  have  bereaved 
him  of  all  further  comfort.      He  was  a  patriot 
attached  to  his  native  soil, — a  prince  true  to  his 
subjects,  and   indignant   of  their    wrongs, — a 


\ 


: 


Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


soldier,  daring  in  battle,  firm  in  adversity, 
patient  of  fatigue,  of  hunger,  of  every  variety 
of  bodily  suffering,  and  ready  to  perish  in  the 
cause  he  had  espoused.  Proud  of  heart,  and 
with  an  untamable  love  of  natural  liberty,  he 
preferred  to  enjoy  it  among  the  beasts  of  the 
forests  or  in  the  dismal  and  famished  recesses 
of  swamps  and  morasses,  rather  than  bow  his 
haughty  spirit  to  submission,  and  live  depen 
dent  and  despised  in  the  ease  and  luxury  of  the 
settlements.  With  heroic  qualities  and  bold 
achievements  that  would  have  graced  a  civilized 
warrior,  and  have  rendered  him  the  theme  of 
the  poet  and  the  historian,  he  lived  a  wanderer 
and  a  fugitive  in  his  native  land,  and  went 
down,  like  a  lonely  bark  foundering  amid  dark 
ness  and  tempest — without  a  pitying  eye  to 
weep  his  fall,  or  a  friendly  hand  to  record  his 
struggle. 


3obn  Bull 

An  old  song,  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 

Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman  who  had  a  great  estate, 

That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate, 

And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate. 

With  an  old  study  fill'd  full  of  learned  old  books, 

With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,   you  might  know  him  by  his 

looks, 

With  an  old  buttery  hatch  worn  quite  off  the  hooks, 
And  an  old  kitchen  that  maintained  half-a-dozen  old  cooks. 
Like  an  old  courtier,  etc. 

Old  Song. 

THERE  is  no  species  of  humor  in  which 
the  English    more   excel   than   that 
which   consists   in  caricaturing   and 
giving     ludicrous     appellations,    or 
nicknames.     In  this  way  they  have 
whimsically  designated,  not  merely  individuals, 
but  nations  ;  and,  in   their  fondness  for  push 
ing  a  joke,  they  have  not  spared  even  them 
selves.     One  would  think  that,  in  personifying 
itself,  a  nation  would  be  apt  to  picture  some 
thing  grand,  heroic,  and  imposing  ;  but  it  is 
characteristic  of  the  popular  humor  of  the  Eng 
lish,  and  their  love  for  what  is  blunt,  comic,  and 
familiar,  that  they  have  embodied  their  national 


;: 


, 
, 


oddities  in  the  figure  of  a  sturdy,  corpulent  old 
fellow,  with  a  three-cornered  hat,  red  waistcoat, 
leather  breeches,  and  stout  oaken  cudgel. 
Thus  they  have  taken  a  singular  delight  in 
exhibiting  their  most  private  foibles  in  a  laugh 
able  point  of  view  ;  and  have  been  so  success 
ful  in  their  delineations,  that  there  is  scarcely 
a  being  in  actual  existence  more  absolutely 
present  to  the  public  mind  than  that  eccentric 
personage,  John  Bull. 

Perhaps  the  continual  contemplation  of  the 
character  thus  drawn  of  them  has  contributed 
to  fix  it  upon  the  nation,  and  thus  to  give 
reality  to  what  at  first  may  have  been  painted 
in  a  great  measure  from  the  imagination. 
Men  are  apt  to  acquire  peculiarities  that  are 
continually  ascribed  to  them.  The  common 
orders  of  English  seem  wonderfully  captivated 
with  the  beau  ideal  which  they  have  formed  of 
John  Bull,  and  endeavor  to  act  up  to  the  broad 
caricature  that  is  perpetually  before  their  eyes. 
Unluckily,  they  sometimes  make  their  boasted 
Bull-ism  an  apology  for  their  prejudice  or 
grossness  ;  and  this  I  have  especially  noticed 
among  those  truly  homebred  and  genuine 
sons  of  the  soil  who  have  never  migrated 
beyond  the  sound  of  Bow-Bells.  If  one  of 
these  should  be  a  little  uncouth  in  speech,  and 
apt  to  utter  impertinent  truths,  he  confesses 


that  he  is  a  real  John  Bull,  and  always  speaks 
his  mind.  If  he  now  and  then  flies  into  an 
unreasonable  burst  of  passion  about  trifles,  he 
observes,  that  John  Bull  is  a  choleric  old  blade, 
but  then  his  passion  is  over  in  a  moment,  and 
he  bears  no  malice.  If  he  betrays  a  coarseness 
of  taste,  and  an  insensibility  to  foreign  refine 
ments,  he  thanks  heaven  for  his  ignorance — he 
is  a  plain  John  Bull,  and  has  no  relish  for 
frippery  and  knickknacks.  His  very  prone- 
ness  to  be  gulled  by  strangers,  and  to  pay  ex 
travagantly  for  absurdities,  is  excused  under 
the  plea  of  munificence — for  John  is  always 
more  generous  than  wise. 

Thus,  under  the  name  of  John  Bull,  he  will 
contrive  to  argue  every  fault  into  a  merit,  and 
will  frankly  convict  himself  of  being  the 
honestest  fellow  in  existence. 

However  little,  therefore,  the  character  may 
have  suited  in  the  first  instance,  it  has 
gradually  adapted  itself  to  the -nation,  or  rather 
they  have  adapted  themselves  to  each  other  ; 
and  a  stranger  who  wishes  to  study  English 
peculiarities,  may  gather  much  valuable  infor 
mation  from  the  innumerable  portraits  of  John 
Bull,  as  exhibited  in  the  windows  of  the  cari 
cature-shops.  Still,  however,  he  is  one  of 
those  fertile  humorists,  that  are  continually 
throwing  out  new  portraits,  and  presenting 


1 


is  one  of  his  peculiarities,  however,  that  he 
only  relishes  the  beginning  of  an  affray  ;  he 
always  goes  into  a  fight  with  alacrity,  but 
comes  out  of  it  grumbling  even  when  victori 
ous  ;  and  though  no  one  fights  with  more  ob 
stinacy  to  carry  a  contested  point,  yet,  when 
the  battle  is  over,  and  he  comes  to  the  recon 
ciliation,  he  is  so  much  taken  up  with  the  mere 
shaking  of  hands,  that  he  is  apt  to  let  his  an 
tagonist  pocket  all  that  they  have  been  quar 
relling  about.  It  is  not,  therefore,  fighting 
that  he  ought  so  much  to  be  on  his  guard 
against,  as  making  friends.  It  is  difficult  to 
cudgel  him  out  of  a  farthing  ;  but  put  him  in 
a  good-humor,  and  you  may  bargain  him  out 
of  all  the  money  in  his  pocket.  He  is  like  a 
stout  ship,  which  will  weather  the  roughest 
storm  uninjured,  but  roll  its  masts  overboard 
in  the  succeeding  calm. 

He  is  a  little  fond  of  playing  the  magnifico 
abroad  ;  of  pulling  out  a  long  purse  ;  flinging 
his  money  bravely  about  at  boxing-matches, 
horse-races,  cock-fights,  and  carrying  a  high 
head  among  "  gentlemen  of  the  fancy  "  ;  but 
immediately  after  one  of  these  fits  of  extrava 
gance  he  will  be  taken  with  violent  qualms  of 
economy  ;  stop  short  at  the  most  trivial  expen 
diture  ;  talk  desperately  of  being  ruined  and 
brought  upon  the  parish  ;  and,  in  such  moods, 


Sobn  JBiill 


will  not  pay  the  smallest  tradesman's  bill  with 
out  violent  altercation.  He  is  in  fact  the  most 
punctual  and  discontented  paymaster  in  the 
world,  drawing  his  coin  out  of  his  breeches- 
pocket  with  infinite  reluctance  ;  paying  to  the 
uttermost  farthing,  but  accompanying  every 
guinea  with  a  growl. 

With  all  his  talk  of  economy,  however,  he 
is  a  bountiful  provider,  and  a  hospitable  house 
keeper.  His  economy  is  of  a  whimsical  kind, 
its  chief  object  being  to  devise  how  he  may 
afford  to  be  extravagant ;  for  he  will  begrudge 
himself  a  beef-steak  and  pint  of  port  one  day, 
that  he  may  roast  an  ox  whole,  broach  a  hogs 
head  of  ale,  and  treat  all  his  neighbors  on  the 
next. 

His  domestic  establishment  is  enormously 
expensive  ;  not  so  much  from  any  great  out 
ward  parade,  as  from  the  great  consumption 
of  solid  beef  and  pudding  ;  the  vast  numbers 
of  followers  he  feeds  and  clothes  ;  and  his  sin 
gular  disposition  to  pay  hugely  for  small  ser 
vices.  He  is  a  most  kind  and  indulgent 
master,  and,  provided  his  servants  humor  his 
peculiarities,  flatter  his  vanity  a  little  now  and 
then,  and  do  not  peculate  grossly  on  him  be 
fore  his  face,  they  may  manage  him  to  perfec 
tion.  Everything  that  lives  on  him  seems  to 
thrive  and  grow  fat.  His  house-servants  are 


.    -r   . 


different  aspects  from  different  points  of  view  ; 
and,  often  as  he  has  been  described,  I  cannot 
resist  the  temptation  to  give  a  slight  sketch  of 
him,  such  as  he  has  met  my  eye. 

John  Bull,  to  all  appearance,  is  a  plain, 
downright  matter-of-fact  fellow,  with  much 
less  of  poetry  about  him  than  rich  prose. 
There  is  little  of  romance  in  his  nature,  but  a 
vast  deal  of  strong  natural  feeling.  He  excels 
in  humor  more  than  in  wit ;  is  jolly  rather 
than  gay  ;  melancholy  rather  than  morose  ; 
can  easily  be  moved  to  a  sudden  tear,  or  sur 
prised  into  a  broad  laugh  ;  but  he  loaths  senti 
ment,  and  has  no  turn  for  light  pleasantry. 
He  is  a  boon-companion,  if  you  allow  him  to 
have  his  humor,  and  to  talk  about  himself,  and 
he  will  stand  by  a  friend  in  a  quarrel,  with  life 
and  purse,  however  soundly  he  may  be  cud 
gelled. 

In  this  last  respect,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  has 
a  propensity  to  be  somewhat  too  ready.  He  is 
a  busy-minded  personage,  who  thinks  not 
merely  for  himself  and  family,  but  for  all  the 
country  round,  and  is  most  generously  dis 
posed  to  be  everybody's  champion.  He  is 
continually  volunteering  his  services  to  settle 
his  neighbor's  affairs,  and  takes  it  in  great 
dudgeon  if  they  engage  in  any  matter  of  con 
sequence  without  asking  his  advice  ;  though 


, 


201 


he  seldom  engages  in  any  friendly  office  of  the 
kind  without  finishing  by  getting  into  a  squab 
ble  with  all  parties,  and  then  railing  bitterly  at 
their  ingratitude.  He  unluckily  took  lessons 
in  his  youth  in  the  noble  science  of  defence, 
and  having  accomplished  himself  in  the  use  of 
his  limbs  and  his  weapons,  and  become  a  per 
fect  master  at  boxing  and  cudgel-play,  he  has 
had  a  troublesome  life  of  it  ever  since.  He 
cannot  hear  of  a  quarrel  between  the  most  dis 
tant  of  his  neighbors,  but  he  begins  inconti 
nently  to  fumble  with  the  head  of  his  cudgel, 
and  consider  whether  his  interest  or  honor  does 
not  require  that  he  should  meddle  in  the  broil. 
Indeed  he  has  extended  his  relations  of  pride 
and  policy  so  completely  over  the  whole  coun 
try,  that  no  event  can  take  place,  without 
infringing  some  of  his  finely-spun  rights  and 
dignities.  Couched  in  his  little  domain,  with 
these  filaments  stretching  forth  in  every  di 
rection,  he  is  like  some  choleric,  bottle-bellied 
old  spider,  who  has  woven  his  web  over  a 
whole  chamber,  so  that  a  fly  cannot  buzz,  nor 
a  breeze  blow,  without  startling  his  repose, 
and  causing  him  to  sally  forth  wrathfully  from 
his  den. 

Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tem 
pered  old  fellow  at  bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly 
fond  of  being  in  the  midst  of  contention.  It 


204 


Cbe  SKetcfcKfiSeoK 


well  paid,  and  pampered,  and  have  little  to  do. 
His  horses  are  sleek  and  lazy,  and  prance 
slowly  before  his  state  carriage  ;  and  his  house 
dogs  sleep  quietly  about  the  door,  and  will 
hardly  bark  at  a  house-breaker. 

His  family  mansion  is  an  old  castellated 
manor-house,  gray  with  age,  and  of  a  most 
venerable  though  weather-beaten  appearance. 
It  has  been  built  upon  no  regular  plan,  but  is 
a  vast  accumulation  of  parts,  erected  in  vari 
ous  tastes  and  ages.  The  centre  bears  evident 
traces  of  Saxon  architecture,  and  is  as  solid  as 
ponderous  stone  and  old  English  oak  can  make 
it.  Like  all  the  relics  of  that  style,  it  is  full 
of  obscure  passages,  intricate  mazes,  and  dusky 
chambers  ;  and  though  these  have  been  par 
tially  lighted  up  in  modern  days,  yet  there  are 
many  places  where  you  must  still  grope  in  the 
dark.  Additions  have  been  made  to  the  origi 
nal  edifice  from  time  to  time,  and  great  altera 
tions  have  taken  place  ;  towers  and  battlements 
have  been  erected  during  wars  and  tumults  ; 
wings  built  in  time  of  peace  ;  and  out-houses, 
lodges,  and  offices  run  up  according  to  the 
whim  or  convenience  of  different  generations, 
until  it  has  become  one  of  the  most  spacious, 
rambling  tenements  imaginable.  An  entire 
wing  is  taken  up  with  the  family  chapel,  a 
reverend  pile,  that  must  have  been  exceedingly 


JBull 


sumptuous,  and,  indeed,  in  spite  of  having 
altered  and  simplified  at  various  periods, 
has  still  a  look  of  solemn  religious  pomp.  Its 
walls  within  are  storied  with  the  monuments 
of  John's  ancestors  ;  and  it  is  snugly  fitted  up 
with  soft  cushions  and  well-lined  chairs,  where 
such  of  his  family  as  are  inclined  to  church 
services  may  doze  comfortably  in  the  discharge 
of  their  duties. 

To  keep  up  this  chapel  has  cost  John  much 
money  ;  but  he  is  stanch  in  his  religion,  and 
piqued  in  his  zeal,  from  the  circumstance  that 
many  dissenting  chapels  have  been  erected  in 
his  vicinity,  and  several  of  his  neighbors,  with 
whom  he  has  had  quarrels,  are  strong  Papists. 

To  do  the  duties  of  the  chapel  he  maintains, 
at  a  large  expense,  a  pious  and  portly  family 
chaplain.  He  is  a  most  learned  and  decorous 
personage,  and  a  truly  well-bred  Christian, 
who  always  backs  the  old  gentleman  in  his 
opinions,  winks  discreetly  at  his  little  peccadil 
loes,  rebukes  the  children  when  refractory,  and 
is  of  great  use  in  exhorting  the  tenants  to  read 
their  Bibles,  say  their  prayers,  and,  above  all, 
to  pay  their  rents  punctually  and  without 
grumbling. 

The  family  apartments  are  in  a  very  anti 
quated  taste,  somewhat  heavy,  and  often  incon 
venient,  but  full  of  the  solemn  magnificence 


of  former  times ;  fitted  up  with  rich  though 
faded  tapestry,  un wieldly  furniture,  and  loads 
of  massy  gorgeous  old  plate.  The  vast  fire 
places,  ample  kitchens,  extensive  cellars,  and 
sumptuous  banqueting  halls,  all  speak  of  the 
roaring  hospitality  of  days  of  yore,  of  which 
the  modern  festivity  at  the  manor-house  is  but 
a  shadow.  There  are,  however,  complete 
suites  of  rooms  apparently  deserted  and  time- 
worn  ;  and  towers  and  turrets  that  are  totter 
ing  to  decay  ;  so  that  in  high  winds  there  is 
danger  of  their  tumbling  about  the  ears  of  the 
household. 

John  has  frequently  been  advised  to  have 
the  old  edifice  thoroughly  overhauled  ;  and  to 
have  some  of  the  useless  parts  pulled  down, 
and  the  others  strengthened  with  their  mate 
rials  ;  but  the  old  gentleman  always  grows 
testy  on  this  subject.  He  swears  the  house 
is  an  excellent  house — that  it  is  tight  and 
weather-proof,  and  not  to  be  shaken  by  tem 
pests — that  it  has  stood  for  several  hundred 
years,  and,  therefore,  is  not  likely  to  tumble 
down  now — that,  as  to  its  being  inconvenient, 
his  family  is  accustomed  to  the  inconveniences, 
and  would  not  be  comfortable  without  them — 
that,  as  to  its  unwieldly  size  and  irregular  con 
struction,  these  result  from  its  being  the 
growth  of  centuries,  and  being  improved  by 


"T' 


3obn  JBull 


^ 


the  wisdom  of  every  generation — that  an  old 
family,  like  his,  requires  a  large  house  to  dwell 
in  ;  new,  upstart  families  may  live  in  modern 
cottages  and  snug  boxes  ;  but  an  old  English 
family  should  inhabit  an  old  English  manor- 
house.  If  you  point  out  any  part  of  the 
building  as  superfluous,  he  insists  that  it  is 
material  to  the  strength  or  decoration  of  the 
rest,  and  the  harmony  of  the  whole  ;  and 
swears  that  the  parts  are  so  built  into  each 
other,  that,  if  you  pull  down  one,  you  run  the 
risk  of  having  the  whole  about  your  ears. 

The  secret  of  the  matter  is,  that  John  has  a 
great  disposition  to  protect  and  patronize.  He 
thinks  it  indispensable  to  the  dignity  of  an 
ancient  and  honorable  family  to  be  bounteous 
in  its  appointments,  and  to  be  eaten  up  by  de 
pendents  ;  and  so,  partly  from  pride  and  partly 
from  kind-heartedness,  he  makes  it  a  rule 
always  to  give  shelter  and  maintenance  to  his 
superannuated  servants. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  like  many  other 
venerable  family  establishments,  his  manor  is 
encumbered  by  old  retainers  whom  he  cannot 
turn  off,  and  an  old  style  which  he  cannot  lay 
down.  His  mansion  is  like  a  great  hospital  of 
invalids,  and,  with  all  its  magnitude,  is  not  a 
whit  too  large  for  its  inhabitants.  Not  a  nook 

corner  but  is  of  use  in  housing  some  useless 


208 


Sbe  Sfcetcb^oofe 


personage.  Groups  of  veteran  beef-eaters, 
gouty  pensioners,  and  retired  heroes  of  the 
buttery  and  the  larder,  are  seen  lolling  about 
its  walls,  crawling  over  its  lawns,  dozing  under 
its  trees,  or  sunning  themselves  upon  the 
benches  at  its  doors.  Every  office  and  out 
house  is  garrisoned  by  these  supernumeraries 
and  their  families  ;  for  they  are  amazingly  pro 
lific,  and  when  they  die  off,  are  sure  to  leave 
John  a  legacy  of  hungry  mouths  to  be  pro 
vided  for.  A  mattock  cannot  be  struck  against 
the  most  mouldering  tumble-down  tower,  but 
out  pops,  from  some  cranny  or  loop-hole,  the 
gray  pate  of  some  superannuated  hanger-on, 
who  has  lived  at  John's  expense  all  his  life,  and 
makes  the  most  grievous  outcry  at  their  pulling 
down  the  roof  from  over  the  head  of  a  worn-out 
servant  of  the  family.  This  is  an  appeal  that 
John's  honest  heart  never  can  withstand  ;  so 
that  a  man,  who  has  faithfully  eaten  his  beef 
and  pudding  all  his  life,  is  sure  to  be  rewarded 
with  a  pipe  and  tankard  in  his  old  days. 

A  great  part  of  his  park,  also,  is  turned  into 
paddocks,  where  his  broken-down  chargers  are 
turned  loose  to  graze  undisturbed  for  the  re 
mainder  of  their  existence, — a  worthy  example 
of  grateful  recollection,  which  if  some  of  his 
neighbors  were  to  imitate,  would  not  be  to  their 
discredit.  Indeed,  it  is  one  of  his  great  pleas- 


3obn  JSull 


ures  to  point  out  these  old  steeds  to  his  visitors, 
to  dwell  on  their  good  qualities,  extol  their 
past  services,  and  boast,  with  some  little  vain 
glory,  of  the  perilous  adventures  and  hardy 
exploits  through  which  they  have  carried  him. 
He  is  given,  however,  to  indulge  his  venera 
tion  for  family  usages,  and  family  incum- 
brances,  to  a  whimsical  extent.  His  manor  is 
infested  by  gangs  of  gypsies  ;  yet  he  will  not 
suffer  them  to  be  driven  off,  because  they  have 
infested  the  place  time  out  of  mind,  and  been 
regular  poachers  upon  every  generation  of  the 
family.  He  will  scarcely  permit  a  dry  branch 
to  be  lopped  from  the  great  trees  that  surround 
the  house,  lest  it  should  molest  the  rooks,  that 
have  bred  there  for  centuries.  Owls  have  taken 
possession  of  the  dove-cot ;  but  they  are  heredi 
tary  owls,  and  must  not  be  disturbed.  Swal 
lows  have  nearly  choked  up  every  chimney 
with  their  nests ;  martins  build  in  every  frieze 
and  cornice  ;  crows  flutter  about  the  towers, 
and  perch  on  every  weathercock  ;  and  old  gray- 
headed  rats  may  be  seen  in  every  quarter  of  the 
house,  running  in  and  out  of  their  holes  un 
dauntedly  in  broad  daylight.  In  short,  John 
has  such  a  reverence  for  everything  that  has 
been  long  in  the  family,  that  he  will  not  hear 
even  of  abuses  being  reformed,  because  they 
are  good  old  family  abuses. 


VOL.   II. — 14 


All  these  whims  and  habits  have  concurred 
wofully  to  drain  the  old  gentleman's  purse  ; 
and  as  he  prides  himself  on  punctuality  in 
money  matters,  and  wishes  to  maintain  his 
credit  in  the  neighborhood,  they  have  caused 
him  great  perplexity  in  meeting  his  engage 
ments.  This,  too,  has  been  increased  by  the 
altercations  and  heart-burnings  which  are 
continually  taking  place  in  his  family.  His 
children  have  been  brought  up  to  different 
callings,  and  are  of  different  ways  of  thinking  ; 
and  as  they  have  always  been  allowed  to  speak 
their  minds  freely,  they  do  not  fail  to  exercise 
the  privilege  most  clamorously  in  the  present 
posture  of  his  affairs.  Some  stand  up  for  the 
honor  of  the  race,  and  are  clear  that  the  old 
establishment  should  be  kept  up  in  all  its  state, 
whatever  may  be  the  cost ;  others,  who  are 
more  prudent  and  considerate,  entreat  the  old 
gentleman  to  retrench  his  expenses,  and  to  put 
his  whole  system  of  housekeeping  on  a  more 
moderate  footing.  He  has,  indeed,  at  times, 
seemed  inclined  to  listen  to  their  opinions,  but 
their  wholesome  advice  has  been  completely 
defeated  by  the  obstreperous  conduct  of  one  of 
his  sons.  This  is  a  noisy,  rattle-pated  fellow, 
of  rather  low  habits,  who  neglects  his  business 
to  frequent  ale-houses,  is  the  orator  of  village 
clubs,  and  a  complete  oracle  among  the  poorest 


3obn  JGull 


of  his  father's  tenants.  No  sooner  does  he 
hear  any  of  his  brothers  mention  reform  or  re 
trenchment,  than  up  he  jumps,  takes  the  words 
out  of  their  mouths,  and  roars  out  for  an  over 
turn.  When  his  tongue  is  once  going,  nothing 
can  stop  it.  He  rants  about  the  room  ;  hectors 
the  old  man  about  his  spendthrift  practices  ; 
ridicules  his  tastes  and  pursuits  ;  insists  that 
he  shall  turn  the  old  servants  out-of-doors  ; 
give  the  broken-down  horses  to  the  hounds  ; 
send  the  fat  chaplain  packing,  and  take  a  field- 
preacher  in  his  place, — nay,  that  the  whole 
family  mansion  shall  be  levelled  with  the 
ground,  and  a  plain  one  of  brick  and  mortar 
built  in  its  place.  He  rails  at  every  social 
entertainment  and  family  festivity,  and  skulks 
away  growling  to  the  ale-house  whenever  an 
equipage  drives  up  to  the  door.  Though  con 
stantly  complaining  of  the  emptiness  of  his 
purse,  yet  he  scruples  not  to  spend  all  his 
pocket-money  in  these  tavern  convocations,  and 
even  runs  up  scores  for  the  liquor  over  which 
he  preaches  about  his  father's  extravagance. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  how  little  such 
thwarting  agrees  with  the  old  cavalier's  fiery 
temperament.  He  has  become  so  irritable, 
from  repeated  crossings,  that  the  mere  mention 
of  retrenchment  or  reform  is  a  signal  for  a 
brawl  between  him  and  the  tavern  oracle.  As 


212 


Gbe  Sfcetcb*JBoofc 


the  latter  is  too  sturdy  and  refractory  for  pater 
nal  discipline,  having  grown  out  of  all  fear  of 
the  cudgel,  they  have  frequent  scenes  of  wordy 
warfare,  which  at  times  run  so  high,  that  John  is 
fain  to  call  in  the  aid  of  his  son  Tom,  an  officer 
who  has  served  abroad,  but  is  at  present  living 
at  home,  on  half-pay.  This  last  is  sure  to  stand 
by  the  old  gentleman,  right  or  wrong  ;  likes 
nothing  so  much  as  a  racketing,  roistering  life  ; 
and  is  ready  at  a  wink  or  nod,  to  out  sabre, 
and  flourish  it  over  the  orator's  head,  if  he  dares 
to  array  himself  against  paternal  authority. 

These  family  dissensions,  as  usual,  have  got 
abroad,  and  are  rare  food  for  scandal  in  John's 
neighborhood.  People  begin  to  look  wise,  and 
shake  their  heads,  whenever  his  affairs  are 
mentioned.  They  all  "hope  that  matters  are 
not  so  bad  with  him  as  represented  ;  but  when 
a  man's  own  children  begin  to  rail  at  his  ex 
travagance,  things  must  be  badly  managed. 
They  understand  he  is  mortgaged  over  head 
and  ears,  and  is  continually  dabbling  with 
money  lenders.  He  is  certainly  an  open- 
handed  old  gentleman,  but  they  fear  he  has 
lived  too  fast ;  indeed,  they  never  knew7  any 
good  come  of  this  fondness  for  hunting,  racing, 
revelling,  and  prize-fighting.  In  short,  Mr. 
Bull's  estate  is  a  very  fine  one,  and  has  been  in 
the  family  a  long  time  ;  but,  for  all  that,  they 


3obn  JGull 


have  known  many  finer  estates  come  to  the 
hammer." 

What  is  worst  of  all,  is  the  effect  which  these 
pecuniary  embarrassments  and  domestic  feuds 
have  had  on  the  poor  man  himself.  Instead  of 
that  jolly  round  corporation,  and  smug  rosy 
face,  which  he  used  to  present,  he  has  of  late 
become  as  shrivelled  and  shrunk  as  a  frost 
bitten  apple.  His  scarlet  gold-laced  waistcoat, 
which  bellied  out  so  bravely  in  those  prosper 
ous  days  when  he  sailed  before  the  wind,  now 
hangs  loosely  about  him  like  a  mainsail  in  a 
calm.  His  leather  breeches  are  all  in  folds  and 
wrinkles,  and  apparently  have  much  ado  to 
hold  up  the  boots  that  yawn  on  both  sides  of 
his  once  sturdy  legs. 

Instead  of  strutting  about  as  formerly,  with 
his  three-cornered  hat  on  one  side  ;  flourishing 
his  cudgel,  and  bringing  it  down  every  moment 
with  a  hearty  thump  upon  the  ground  ;  looking 
every  one  sturdily  in  the  face,  and  trolling  out 
a  stave  of  a  catch  or  a  drinking  song  ;  he  now 
goes  about  whistling  thoughtfully  to  himself, 
with  his  head  drooping  down,  his  cudgel 
tucked  under  his  arm,  and  his  hands  thrust  to 
the  bottom  of  his  breeches  pockets,  which  are 
evidently  empty. 

Such  is  the  plight  of  honest  John  Bull  at 
present ;  yet  for  all  this  the  old  fellow's  spirit 


214 


is  as  tall  and  as  gallant  as  ever.  If  you  drop 
the  least  expression  of  sympathy  or  concern, 
he  takes  fire  in  an  instant ;  swears  that  he  is  the 
richest  and  stoutest  fellow  in  the  country  ;  talks 
of  laying  out  large  sums  to  adorn  his  house  or 
buy  another  estate  ;  and  with  a  valiant  swagger 
and  grasping  of  his  cudgel,  longs  exceedingly 
to  have  another  bout  at  quarter-staff. 

Though  there  may  be  something  rather 
whimsical  in  all  this,  yet  I  confess  I  cannot 
look  upon  John's  situation  without  strong  feel 
ings  of  interest.  With  all  his  odd  humors  and 
obstinate  prejudices,  he  is  a  sterling-hearted 
old  blade.  He  may  not  be  so  wonderfully  fine 
a  fellow  as  he  thinks  himself,  but  he  is  at  least 
twice  as  good  as  his  neighbors  represent  him. 
His  virtues  are  all  his  own  ;  all  plain,  home 
bred,  and  unaffected.  His  very  faults  smack 
of  the  raciness  of  his  good  qualities.  His 
extravagance  savors  of  his  generosity ;  his 
quarrelsomeness  of  his  courage  ;  his  credulity 
of  his  open  faith  ;  his  vanity  of  his  pride  ; 
and  his  bluntness  of  his  sincerity.  They  are 
all  the  redundancies  of  a  rich  and  liberal  char 
acter.  He  is  like  his  own  oak,  rough  without, 
but  sound  and  solid  within  ;  whose  bark 
abounds  with  excrescences  in  proportion  to 
the  growth  and  grandeur  of  the  timber  ;  and 
whose  branches  make  a  fearful  groaning  and 


3obn 


215 


murmuring  in  the  least  storm,  from  their  very 
magnitude  and  luxuriance.  There  is  some 
thing,  too,  in  the  appearance  of  his  old  family 
mansion  that  is  extremely  poetical  and  pictur 
esque  ;  and,  as  long  as  it  can  be  rendered  com 
fortably  habitable,  I  should  almost  tremble  to 
see  it  meddled  with,  during  the  present  con 
flict  of  tastes  and  opinions.  Some  of  his  ad 
visers  are  no  doubt  good  architects,  that  might 
be  of  service  ;  but  many,  I  fear,  are  mere  lev 
ellers,  who,  when  they  had  once  got  to  work  with 
their  mattocks  on  this  venerable  edifice,  would 
never  stop  until  they  had  brought  it  to  the 
ground,  and  perhaps  buried  themselves  among 
the  ruins.  All  that  I  wish  is,  that  John's  pres 
ent  troubles  may  teach  him  more  prudence  in 
future  ; — that  he  may  cease  to  distress  his 
mind  about  other  people 's  affairs  ;  that  he  may 
give  up  the  fruitless  attempt  to  promote  the 
good  of  his  neighbors,  and  the  peace  and  hap 
piness  of  the  world,  by  dint  of  the  cudgel  ; 
that  he  may  remain  quietly  at  home  ;  gradu 
ally  get  his  house  into  repair  ;  cultivate  his 
rich  estate  according  to  his  fancy  ;  husband 
his  income — if  he  thinks  proper  ;  bring  his  un 
ruly  children  into  order — if  he  can  ;  renew  the 
jovial  scenes  of  ancient  prosperity  ;  and  long 
enjoy,  on  his  paternal  lands,  a  green,  an  hon 
orable,  and  a  merry  old  age. 


TTbe  prifce  of  tbe 


May  no  wolfe  howle  ;  no  screech  owle  stir 

A  wing  about  thy  sepulchre  ! 

No  boysterous  winds  or  stormes  come  hither, 

To  starve  or  wither 

Thy  soft  sweet  earth  !  but,  like  a  spring, 
I,ove  kept  it  ever  flourishing. 

HERRICK. 

N  the  course  of  an  excursion 
through  one  of  the  remote 
counties    of     England,     I 
had    struck    into    one    of 
those  cross-roads  that  lead 
through  the  more  secluded 
parts  of  the  country,  and 
stopped   one   afternoon    at 
a  village,  the  situation  of 
which      was      beautifully 
rural   and  retired.     There 
was   an    air    of    primitive 
simplicity    about  its    inhabitants,    not    to    be 
found  in  the  villages  which  lie  on  the  great 
coach-roads.     I  determined  to  pass  the  night 
there,     and,    having   taken    an    early   dinner, 
strolled  out  to  enjoy  the  neighboring  scenery. 


Cbe  priDc  of  tbc  Dilla0e 


217 


My  ramble,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  trav 
ellers,  soon  led  me  to  the  church,  which  stood 
at  a  little  distance  from  the  village.  Indeed, 
it  was  an  object  of  some  curiosity,  its  old  tower 
being  completely  overrun  with  ivy,  so  that 
only  here  and  there  a  jutting  buttress,  an  angle 
of  gray  wall,  or  a  fantastically  carved  orna 
ment,  peered  through  the  verdant  covering. 
It  was  a  lovely  evening.  The  early  part  of 
the  day  had  been  dark  and  showery,  but  in  the 
afternoon  it  had  cleared  up  ;  and  though  sullen 
clouds  still  hung  overhead,  yet  there  was  a 
broad  tract  of  golden  sky  in  the  west,  from 
which  the  setting  sun  gleamed  through  the 
dripping  leaves,  and  lit  up  all  nature  with  a 
melancholy  smile.  It  seemed  like  the  parting 
hour  of  a  good  Christian,  smiling  on  the  sins 
and  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  giving,  in  the 
serenity  of  his  decline,  an  assurance  that  he 
will  rise  again  in  glory. 

I  had  seated  myself  on  a  half-sunken  tomb 
stone,  and  was  musing,  as  one  is  apt  to  do  at 
this  sober-thoughted  hour,  on  past  scenes  and 
early  friends, — on  those  who  were  distant  and 
those  who  were  dead, — and  indulging  in  that 
kind  of  melancholy  fancying  which  has  in  it 
something  sweeter  even  than  pleasure.  Every 
now  and  then  the  stroke  of  a  bell  from  the 
neighboring  tower  fell  on  my  ear  ;  its  tones 


were  in  unison  with  the  scene,  and,  instead  of 
jarring,  chimed  in  with  my  feelings  ;  and  it 
was  some  time  before  I  recollected  that  it  must 
be  tolling  the  knell  of  some  new  tenant  of  the 
tomb. 

Presently  I  saw  a  funeral  train  moving  across 
the  village  green  ;  it  wound  slowly  along  a 
lane  ;  was  lost,  and  reappeared  through  the 
breaks  of  the  hedges,  until  it  passed  the  place 
where  I  was  sitting.  The  pall  was  supported 
by  young  girls,  dressed  in  white  ;  and  another, 
about  the  age  of  seventeen,  walked  before, 
bearing  a  chaplet  of  white  flowers :  a  token 
that  the  deceased  was  a  young  and  unmarried 
female.  The  corpse  was  followed  by  the  par 
ents.  They  were  a  venerable  couple  of  the 
better  order  of  peasantry.  The  father  seemed 
to  repress  his  feelings  ;  but  his  fixed  eye,  con 
tracted  brow,  and  deeply  furrowed  face  showed 
the  struggle  that  was  passing  within.  His 
wife  hung  on  his  arm,  and  wept  aloud  with 
the  convulsive  bursts  of  a  mother's  sorrow. 

I  followed  the  funeral  into  the  church.  The 
bier  was  placed  in  the  centre-aisle,  and  the 
chaplet  of  white  flowers,  with  a  pair  of  white 
gloves,  were  hung  over  the  seat  which  the 
deceased  had  occupied. 

Every  one  knows  the  soul-subduing  pathos 
of  the  funeral  service  for  who  is  so  fortunate 


Sbc  pnfce  of  tbc  Village 


as  never  to  have  followed  some  one  he  has  loved 
to  the  tomb  ?  but  when  performed  over  the 
remains  of  innocence  and  beauty,  thus  laid  low 
in  the  bloom  of  existence,  what  can  be  more 
affecting  ?  At  that  simple  but  most  solemn  con 
signment  of  the  bod}r  to  the  grave — "  Karth  to 
earth — ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust  !  ' '  — the 
tears  of  the  youthful  companions  of  the 
deceased  flowed  unrestrained.  The  father  still 
seemed  to  struggle  with  his  feelings,  and  to 
comfort  himself  with  the  assurance  that  the 
dead  are  blest  which  die  in  the  Lord  ;  but  the 
mother  only  thought  of  her  child  as  a  flower 
of  the  field  cut  down  and  withered  in  the  midst 
of  its  sweetness  ;  she  was  like  Rachel,  "  mourn 
ing  over  her  children,  and  would  not  be  com 
forted." 

On  returning  to  the  inn,  I  learned  the  whole 
story  of  the  deceased.  It  was  a  simple  one, 
and  such  as  has  often  been  told.  She  had  been 
the  beauty  and  pride  of  the  village.  Her 
father  had  once  been  an  opulent  farmer,  but 
was  reduced  in  circumstances.  This  was  an 
only  child,  and  brought  up  entirely  at  home, 
in  the  simplicity  of  rural  life.  She  had  been 
the  pupil  of  the  village  pastor,  the  favorite 
lamb  of  his  little  flock.  The  good  man  watched 
over  her  education  with  paternal  care  ; — it  was 
limited,  and  suitable  to  the  sphere  in  which 


1 


A/ 


2  2O 


Cbe  Sfcetcb^Boofc 


she  was  to  move  ;  for  he  only  sought  to  make 
her  an  ornament  to  her  station  in  life,  not  to 
raise  her  above  it.  The  tenderness  and  indul 
gence  of  her  parents,  and  the  exemption  from 
all  ordinary  occupations,  had  fostered  a  natural 
grace  and  delicacy  of  character,  that  accorded 
with  the  fragile  loveliness  of  her  form.  She 
appeared  like  some  tender  plant  of  the  garden, 
blooming  accidentally  amid  the  hardier  natives 
of  the  fields. 

The  superiority  of  her  charms  was  felt  and 
acknowledged  by  her  companions,  but  without 
envy  ;  for  it  was  surpassed  by  the  unassuming 
gentleness  and  winning  kindness  of  her  man 
ners.  It  might  be  truly  said  of  her, — 
"  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass,  that  ever 

Ran  on  the  green-sward  ;  nothing  she  does  or  seems 

But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself ; 

Too  noble  for  this  place." 

The  village  was  one  of  those  sequestered 
spots  which  still  retain  some  vestiges  of  old 
English  customs.  It  had  its  rural  festivals  and 
holiday  pastimes,  and  still  kept  up  some  faint 
observance  of  the  once  popular  rites  of  May. 
These,  indeed,  had  been  promoted  by  its  pres 
ent  pastor,  who  was  a  lover  of  old  customs, 
and  one  of  those  simple  Christians  that  think 
their  mission  fulfilled  by  promoting  joy  on 
earth  and  good-will  among  mankind.  Under 


Cbe  prtoc  of  tbc  Wlla0c 


221 


his  auspices  the  May-pole  stood  from  year  to 
\vur  in  the  centre  of  the  village  green  ;  on 
May-day  it  was  decorated  with  garlands  and 
streamers  ;  and  a  queen  or  lady  of  the  May 
was  appointed,  as  in  former  times,  to  preside 
at  the  sports,  and  distribute  the  prizes  and 
rewards.  The  picturesque  situation  of  the  vil 
lage,  and  the  fancifulness  of  its  rustic  fetes 
would  often  attract  the  notice  of  casual  visi 
tors.  Among  these,  on  one  May-day,  was  a 
young  officer,  whose  regiment  had  been  re 
cently  quartered  in  the  neighborhood.  He 
was  charmed  with  the  native  taste  that  per 
vaded  this  village  pageant  ;  but,  above  all, 
with  the  dawning  loveliness  of  the  queen  of 
May.  It  was  the  village  favorite,  who  was 
crowned  with  flowers,  and  blushing  and  smil 
ing  in  all  the  beautiful  confusion  of  girlish 
diffidence  and  delight.  The  artlessness  of 
rural  habits  enabled  him  readily  to  make  her 
acquaintance  ;  he  gradually  won  his  way  into 
her  intimacy  ;  and  paid  his  court  to  her  in  that 
unthinking  way  in  which  young  officers  are 
too  apt  to  trifle  with  rustic  simplicity. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  advances  to  startle 
or  alarm.  He  never  even  talked  of  love  :  but 
there  are  modes  of  making  it  more  eloquent 
than  language,  and  which  convey  it  subtlely 
and  irresistibly  to  the  heart.  The  beam  of  the 


m 


:• 


eye,  the  tone  of  voice,  the  thousand  tender 
nesses  which  emanate  from  every  word,  and 
look,  and  action, — these  form  the  true  elo 
quence  of  love,  and  can  always  be  felt  and 
understood,  but  never  described.  Can  we 
wonder  that  they  should  readily  win  a  heart, 
young,  guileless,  and  susceptible  ?  As  to  her, 
she  loved  almost  unconsciously  ;  she  scarce!}- 
inquired  what  was  the  growing  passion  that 
was  absorbing  every  thought  and  feeling,  or 
what  were  to  be  its  consequences.  She,  indeed, 
looked  not  to  the  future.  When  present,  his 
looks  and  words  occupied  her  whole  attention  ; 
when  absent,  she  thought  but  of  what  had 
passed  at  their  recent  interview.  Shewould  wan 
der  with  him  through  the  green  lanes  and  rural 
scenes  of  the  vicinity.  He  taught  her  to  see 
new  beauties  in  nature;  he  talked  in  the  lan 
guage  of  polite  and  cultivated  life,  and  breathed 
into  her  ear  the  witcheries  of  romance  arid 
poetry. 

Perhaps  there  could  not  have  been  a  passion, 
between  the  sexes,  more  pure  than  this  inno 
cent  girl's.  The  gallant  figure  of  her  youthful 
admirer,  and  the  splendor  of  his  military 
attire,  might  at  first  have  charmed  her  eye  ; 
but  it  was  not  these  that  had  captivated  her 
heart.  Her  attachment  had  something  in  it 
of  idolatry.  She  looked  up  to  him  as  to  a 


Cbc  priOc  ot  tbc 


223 


being  of  a  superior  order.  Slie  felt  in  his 
society  the  enthusiasm  of  a  mind  naturally 
delicate  and  poetical,  and  now  first  awakened 
to  a  keen  perception  of  the  beautiful  and 
grand.  Of  the  sordid  distinctions  of  rank  and 
fortune  she  thought  nothing  ;  it  was  the  dif 
ference  of  intellect,  of  demeanor,  of  manners, 
from  those  of  the  rustic  society  to  which  she 
had  been  accustomed,  that  elevated  him  in  her 
opinion.  She  would  listen  to  him  with  charmed 
ear  and  downcast  look  of  mute  delight,  and 
her  cheek  would  mantle  with  enthusiasm  ;  or 
if  ever  she  ventured  a  shy  glance  of  timid 
admiration,  it  was  as  quickly  withdrawn,  and 
she  would  sigh  and  blush  at  the  idea  of  her 
comparative  un worthiness. 

Her  lover  was  equally  impassioned  ;  but  his 
passion  was  mingled  with  feelings  of  a  coarser 
nature.  He  had  begun  the  connection  in 
levity ;  for  he  had  often  heard  his  brother 
officers  boast  of  their  village  conquests,  and 
thought  some  triumph  of  the  kind  necessary 
to  his  reputation  as  a  man  of  spirit.  But  he 
was  too  full  of  youthful  fervor.  His  heart 
had  not  yet  been  rendered  sufficiently  cold  and 
selfish  by  a  wandering  and  a  dissipated  life  :  it 
caught  fire  from  the  very  flame  it  sought  to 
kindle  ;  and  before  he  was  aware  of  the  nature 
of  his  situation,  he  became  really  in  love. 


'•' 


224 


What  was  he  to  do?  There  were  the  old 
obstacles  which  so  incessantly  occur  in  these 
heedless  attachments.  His  rank  in  life — the 
prejudices  of  titled  connections — his  depend 
ence  upon  a  proud  and  unyielding  father — all 
forbade  him  to  think  of  matrimony  : — but  when 
he  looked  down  upon  this  innocent  being,  so 
tender  and  confiding,  there  was  a  purity  in  her 
manners,  a  blamelessness  in  her  life,  and  a 
beseeching  modesty  in  her  looks,  that  awed 
down  every  licentious  feeling.  In  vain  did  he 
tr}'  to  fortify  himself  by  a  thousand  heartless 
examples  of  men  of  fashion,  and  to  chill  the 
glow  of  generous  sentiment  with  that  cold 
derisive  levity  with  which  he  had  heard  them 
talk  of  female  virtue  :  whenever  he  came  into 
her  presence,  she  was  still  surrounded  by  that 
mysterious  but  impassive  charm  of  virgin 
purity  in  whose  hallowed  sphere  no  guilty 
thought  can  live. 

The  sudden  arrival  of  orders  for  the  regi 
ment  to  repair  to  the  continent  completed  the 
confusion  of  his  mind.  He  remained  for  a 
short  time  in  a  state  of  the  most  painful  irreso 
lution  ;  he  hesitated  to  communicate  the 
tidings,  until  the  day  for  marching  was  at 
hand  ;  when  he  gave  her  the  intelligence  in 
the  course  of  an  evening  ramble. 

The    idea     of   parting    had    never    before 


ffl 


Cbe  prtfc  or  tbc 


occurred  to  her.  It  broke  in  at  once  upon  her 
dream  of  felicity  ;  she  looked  upon  it  as  a 
sudden  and  insurmountable  evil,  and  wept 
with  the  guileless  simplicity  of  a  child.  He 
drew  her  to  his  bosom,  and  kissed  the  tears 
from  her  soft  cheek  ;  nor  did  he  meet  with  a 
repulse,  for  there  are  moments  of  mingled 
sorrow  and  tenderness,  which  hallow  the 
caresses  of  affection.  He  was  naturally 
impetuous  ;  and  the  sight  of  beauty,  appar 
ently  yielding  in  his  arms,  the  confidence  of 
his  power  over  her,  and  the  dread  of  losing 
her  forever,  all  conspired  to  overwhelm  his 
better  feelings, — he  ventured  to  propose  that 
she  should  leave  her  home,  and  be  the  com 
panion  of  his  fortunes. 

He  was  quite  a  novice  in  seduction,  and 
blushed  and  faltered  at  his  own  baseness  ;  but 
so  innocent  of  mind  was  his  intended  victim, 
that  she  was  at  first  at  a  loss  to  comprehend 
his  meaning  ;  and  why  she  should  leave  her 
native  village,  and  the  humble  roof  of  her 
parents.  When  at  last  the  nature  of  his  pro 
posal  flashed  upon  her  pure  mind,  the  effect 
was  withering.  She  did  not  weep — she  did 
not  break  forth  into  reproach — she  said  not  a 
word — but  she  shrunk  back  aghast  as  from 
a  viper;  gave  him  a  look  of  anguish  that 
pierced  to  his  very  soul ;  and  clasping  her 


! 


VOL.  II. — 15 


Cbe  SfcetcbOBoofc 


hands  in  agony,  fled,  as  if  for  refuge,  to  her 
father's  cottage. 

The  officer  retired,  confounded,  humiliated, 
and  repentant.  It  is  uncertain  what  might 
have  been  the  result  of  the  conflict  of  his  feel 
ings,  had  not  his  thoughts  been  diverted  by 
the  bustle  of  departure.  New  scenes,  new 
pleasures,  and  new  companions  soon  dissipated 
his  self-reproach,  and  stifled  his  tenderness  ; 
yet,  amidst  the  stir  of  camps,  the  revelries  of 
garrisons,  the  array  of  armies,  even  the  din  of 
battles,  his  thoughts  would  sometimes  steal 
back  to  the  scenes  of  rural  quiet  and  village  sim 
plicity — the  white  cottage — the  footpath  along 
the  silver  brook  and  up  the  hawthorn  hedge, 
and  the  little  village  maid  loitering  along  it, 
leaning  on  his  arm,  and  listening  to  him  with 
eyes  beaming  with  unconscious  affection. 

The  shock  which  the  poor  girl  had  received, 
in  the  destruction  of  all  her  ideal  world,  had 
indeed  been  cruel.  Paintings  and  hysterics 
had  at  first  shaken  her  tender  frame,  and  were 
succeeded  by  a  settled  and  pining  melancholy. 
She  had  beheld  from  her  window  the  march  of 
the  departing  troops.  She  had  seen  her  faith 
less  lover  borne  off,  as  if  in  triumph,  amidst 
the  sound  of  drum  and  trumpet,  and  the  pomp 
of  arms.  She  strained  a  last  aching  gaze  after 
him,  as  the  morning  sun  glittered  about  his 


(Tbc  priDc  ot  tbc 


227 


figure,  and  his  plume  waved  in  the  breeze  ;  he 
parsed  away  like  a  bright  vision  from  her 
sight,  and  left  her  all  in  darkness. 

It  would  be  trite  to  dwell  on  the  particulars 
of  her  after-story.  It  was,  like  other  tales  of 
love,  melancholy.  She  avoided  society,  and 
wandered  out  alone  in  the  walks  she  had  most 
frequented  with  her  lover.  She  sought,  like 
the  stricken  deer,  to  weep  in  silence  and  lone 
liness,  and  brood  over  the  barbed  sorrow  that 
rankled  in  her  soul.  Sometimes  she  would  be 
seen  late  of  an  evening  sitting  in  the  porch  of 
the  village  church  ;  and  the  milkmaids,  return 
ing  from  the  fields,  would  now  and  then  over 
hear  her  singing  some  plaintive  ditty  in  the 
hawthorn-walk.  She  became  fervent  in  her 
devotions  at  church  ;  and  as  the  old  people  saw 
her  approach,  so  wasted  away,  yet  with  a  hectic 
bloom,  and  that  hallowed  air  which  melan 
choly  diffuses  round  the  form,  they  would 
make  way  for  her,  as  for  something  spiritual, 
and,  looking  after  her,  would  shake  their 
heads  in  gloomy  foreboding. 

She  felt  a  conviction  that  she  was  hastening 
to  the  tomb,  but  looked  forward  to  it  as  a  place 
of  rest.  The  silver  cord  that  had  bound  her  to 
existence  was  loosed,  and  there  seemed  to  be 
no  more  pleasure  under  the  sun.  If  ever  her 
gentle  bosom  had  entertained  resentment 


ft 


228 


against  her  lover,  it  was  extinguished.  She 
was  incapable  of  angry  passions  ;  and  in  a 
moment  of  saddened  tenderness  she  penned 
him  a  farewell  letter.  It  was  couched  in  the 
simplest  language,  but  touching  from  its  very 
simplicity.  She  told  him  that  she  was  dying, 
and  did  not  conceal  from  him  that  his  conduct 
was  the  cause.  She  even  depicted  the  suffer 
ings  which  she  had  experienced ;  but  con 
cluded  with  saying  that  she  could  not  die  in 
peace,  until  she  had  sent  him  her  forgiveness 
and  her  blessing. 

By  degrees  her  strength  declined  ;  she  could 
no  longer  leave  the  cottage.  She  could  only 
totter  to  the  window,  where,  propped  up  in  her 
chair,  it  was  her  enjoyment  to  sit  all  day  and 
look  out  upon  the  landscape.  Still  she  uttered 
no  complaint,  nor  imparted  to  any  one  the 
malady  that  was  preying  on  her  heart.  She 
never  even  mentioned  her  lover's  name;  but 
would  lay  her  head  on  her  mother's  bosom 
and  weep  in  silence.  Her  poor  parents  hung, 
in  mute  anxiety,  over  this  fading  blossom  of 
their  hopes,  still  flattering  themselves  that  it 
might  again  revive  to  freshness,  and  that  the 
bright  unearthly  bloom  which  sometimes 
flushed  her  cheek  might  be  the  promise  of 
returning  health. 

In  this  way  she  was  seated  between  them 


•\ 


£i 


Cbc  prlDc  ot  tbc  Wlla0e 


229 


one  Sunday  afternoon  ;  her  hands  were  clasped 
in  theirs,  the  lattice  was  thrown  open,  and  the 
soft  air  that  stole  in  brought  with  it  the  fra 
grance  of  the  clustering  honeysuckle  which  her 
own  hands  had  trained  round  the  window. 

Her  father  had  just  been  reading  a  chapter 
in  the  Bible  ;  it  spoke  of  the  vanity  of  worldly 
things,  and  of  the  joys  of  heaven  ;  it  seemed  to 
have  diffused  comfort  and  serenity  through 
her  bosom.  Her  eye  was  fixed  on  the  distant 
village  church  ;  the  bell  had  tolled  for  evening 
service,  the  last  villager  was  lagging  into  the 
porch,  and  everything  had  sunk  into  that 
hallowed  stillness  peculiar  to  the  day  of  rest. 
Her  parents  were  gazing  on  her  with  yearning 
hearts.  Sickness  and  sorrow,  which  pass  so 
roughly  over  some  faces,  had  given  to  hers  the 
expression  of  a  seraph's.  A  tear  trembled  in 
her  soft  blue  eye. — Was  she  thinking  of  her 
faithless  lover  ? — or  were  her  thoughts  wander 
ing  to  that  distant  churchyard  into  whose 
bosom  she  might  soon  be  gathered  ? 

Suddenly  the  clang  of  hoofs  was  heard — a 
horseman  galloped  to  the  cottage  —  he  dis 
mounted  before  the  window — the  poor  girl  gave 
a  faint  exclamation,  and  sunk  back  in  her 
chair  :  it  was  her  repentant  lover  !  He  rushed 
into  the  house,  and  flew  to  clasp  her  to  his 
bosom  ;  but  her  wasted  form — her  deathlike 


Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


countenance— so  wan,  yet  so  lovely  in  its 
desolation — smote  him  to  the  soul,  and  he 
threw  himself  in  agony  at  her  feet.  She  was 
too  faint  to  rise — she  attempted  to  extend  her 
trembling  hand — her  lips  moved  as  if  she 
spoke,  but  no  word  was  articulated — she 
looked  down  upon  him  with  a  smile  of  unut 
terable  tenderness — and  closed  her  eyes  for 
ever  ! 

Such  are  the  particulars  which  I  gathered  of 
this  village  story.  They  are  but  scanty,  and  I 
am  conscious  have  little  novelty  to  recommend 
them.  In  the  present  rage  also  for  strange  in 
cident  and  high -seasoned  narrative,  they  may 
appear  trite  and  insignificant,  but  they  inter 
ested  me  strong^  at  the  time  ;  and,  taken  in 
connection  with  the  affecting  ceremony  which 
I  had  just  witnessed,  left  a  deeper  impression 
on  my  mind  than  many  circumstances  of  a 
more  striking  nature.  I  have  passed  through 
the  place  since,  and  visited  the  church  again, 
from  a  better  motive  than  mere  curiosity.  It 
was  a  wintry  evening;  the  trees  were  stripped 
of  their  foliage  ;  the  churchyard  looked  naked 
and  mournful,  and  the  wind  rustled  coldly 
through  the  dry  grass.  Evergreens,  however, 
had  been  planted  about  the  grave  of  the  village 
favorite,  and  osiers  were  bent  over  it  to  keep 
the  turf  uninjured. 


Cbc  IPrifce  ot  tbc 


The  church  door  was  open,  and  I  stepped  in. 
There  hung  the  chaplet  of  flowers  and  the 
gloves,  as  on  the  day  of  the  funeral ;  the  flow 
ers  were  withered,  it  is  true,  but  care  seemed 
to  have  been  taken  that  no  dust  should  soil 
their  whiteness.  I  have  seen  many  monu 
ments,  where  art  has  exhausted  its  powers  to 
awaken  the  sympathy  of  the  spectator,  but  I 
have  met  with  none  that  spoke  more  touch- 
ingly  to  my  heart  than  this  simple  but  delicate 
memento  of  departed  innocence. 


Ube  Bugler 


This  day  daine  Nature  seem'd  in  love, 

The  lusty  sap  began  to  move, 

Fresh  juice  did  stir  th'  embracing  vines, 

And  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines. 

The  jealous  trout  that  low  did  lie, 

Rose  at  a  well-dissembled  flie. 

There  stood  my  friend,  with  patient  skill, 

Attending  of  his  trembling  quill. 

SIR  H.  WOTTON. 

IT  is  said  that  many  an  unlucky  urchin  is  in 
duced  to  run  away  from  his  family,  and 
betake  himself  to  a  seafaring  life,  from 
reading  the  history  of  Robinson  Crusoe  ; 
and  I  suspect  that,  in  like  manner,  many 
of  those  worthy  gentlemen  who  are  given  to 
haunt  the  sides  of  pastoral  streams,  with  angle- 
rods  in  hand,  may  trace   the   origin   of  their 
passion  to  the  seductive  pages  of  honest  Izaak 
Walton.       I  recollect    studying    his    Complete 
Angler  several  years  since,  in  company  with 
a   knot  of  friends  in  America,  and  moreover 
that  we  were   all  completely  bitten  with   the 
angling  mania.     It  was  early  in  the  year  ;  but 
as  soon  as  the  weather  was  auspicious,  and  that 


To  Haunt  the  Sides  of  Pastoral  Sin 

in  Hand" 

Dt 


Gbe  Busier 


the  spring  began  to  melt  into  the  verge  of  sum 
mer,  we  took  rod  in  hand  and  sallied  into  the 
country,  as  stark  mad  as  was  ever  Don  Quixote 
from  reading  books  of  chivalry. 

One  of  our  party  had  equalled  the  Don  in  the 
fulness  of  his  equipments  ;  being  attired  cap-cL- 
pie  for  the  enterprise.  He  wore  a  broad-skirted 
fustian  coat,  perplexed  with  half  a  hundred 
pockets ;  a  pair  of  stout  shoes,  and  leathern 
gaiters  ;  a  basket  slung  on  one  side  for  fish  ;  a 
patent  rod,  a  landing-net,  and  a  score  of  other 
inconveniences,  only  to  be  found  in  the  true  an 
gler's  armory.  Thus  harnessed  for  the  field,  he 
was  as  great  a  matter  of  stare  and  wonderment 
among  the  country  folk,  who  had  never  seen  a 
regular  angler,  as  was  the  steel-clad  hero  of  La 
Mancha  among  the  goat-herds  of  the  Sierra 
Morena. 

Our  first  essay  was  along  a  mountain-brook, 
among  the  highlands  of  the  Hudson  ;  a  most 
unfortunate  place  for  the  execution  of  those 
piscatory  tactics  which  had  been  invented  along 
the  velvet  margins  of  quiet  English  rivulets. 
It  was  one  of  those  wild  streams  that  lavish, 
among  our  romantic  solitudes,  unheeded  beau 
ties,  enough  to  fill  the  sketch-book  of  a  hunter 
of  the  picturesque.  Sometimes  it  would  leap 
down  rocky  shelves,  making  small  cascades, 
over  which  the  trees  threw  their  broad  balanc- 


ing  sprays,  and  long  nameless  weeds  hung  in 
fringes  from  the  impending  banks,  dripping 
with  diamond  drops.  Sometimes  it  would 
brawl  and  fret  along  a  ravine  in  the  matted 
shade  of  a  forest,  filling  it  with  murmurs  ;  and, 
after  this  termagant  career,  would  steal  forth 
into  open  day  with  the  most  placid  demure  face 
imaginable  ;  as  I  have  seen  some  pestilent 
shrew  of  a  housewife,  after  filling  her  home 
with  uproar  and  ill-humor,  come  dimpling  out 
of  doors,  swimming  and  courtesying,  and  smil 
ing  upon  all  the  world. 

How  smoothly  would  this  vagrant  brook 
glide,  at  such  times,  through  some  bosom  of 
green  meadow-land  among  the  mountains ; 
where  the  quiet  was  only  interrupted  by  the 
occasional  tinkling  of  a  bell  from  the  lazy  cattle 
among  the  clover,  or  the  sound  of  a  wood-cut 
ter'  s  axe  from  the  neighboring  forest. 

For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler  at  all 
kinds  of  sport  that  required  either  patience  or 
adroitness,  and  had  not  angled  above  half  an 
hour  before  I  had  completely  ' '  satisfied  the 
sentiment,"  and  convinced  myself  of  the  truth 
of  Izaak  Walton's  opinion,  that  angling  is 
something  like  poetry — a  man  must  be  born  to 
it.  I  hooked  myself  instead  of  the  fish  ;  tan 
gled  my  line  in  every  tree  ;  lost  my  bait  ;  broke 
my  rod  ;  until  I  gave  up  the  attempt  in  de- 


Cbe  Bnfllcr 


spair,  and  passed  the  day  under  the  trees, 
re-ailing  old  Izaak  ;  satisfied  that  it  was  his 
fascinating  vein  of  honest  simplicity  and  rural 
kxling  that  had  bewitched  me,  and  not  the 
passion  for  angling.  My  companions,  how 
ever,  were  more  persevering  in  their  delusion. 
I  have  them  at  this  moment  before  my  eyes, 
stealing  along  the  border  of  the  brook,  where 
it  lay  open  to  the  day,  or  was  merely  fringed 
by  shrubs  and  bushes.  I  see  the  bittern  ris 
ing  with  hollow  scream  as  they  break  in  upon 
his  rarely  invaded  haunt  ;  the  kingfisher  watch 
ing  them  suspiciously  from  his  dry  tree  that 
overhangs  the  deep  black  mill-pond,  in  the 
gorge  of  the  hills  ;  the  tortoise  letting  himself 
slip  sideways  from  off  the  stone  or  log  on 
which  he  is  sunning  himself ;  and  the  panic- 
struck  frog  plumping  in  headlong  as  they  ap 
proach,  and  spreading  an  alarm  throughout  the 
watery  world  around. 

I  recollect  also,  that,  after  toiling  and  watch 
ing  and  creeping  about  for  the  greater  part  of 
the  day,  with  scarcely  any  success,  in  spite  of 
all  our  admirable  apparatus,  a  lubberly  country 
urchin  came  down  from  the  hills  with  a  rod 
made  from  a  branch  of  a  tree,  a  few  yards  of 
twine,  and,  as  Heaven  shall  help  me  !  I  be 
lieve,  a  crooked  pin  for  a  hook,  baited  with  a 
vile  earthworm,— and  in  half  an  hour  caught 


•X." 


Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


more  fish  than  we  had  nibbles  throughout  the 
day  ! 

But,  above  all,  I  recollect,  the  "  good,  hon 
est,  wholesome,  hungry"  repast,  which  we 
made  under  a  beech- tree,  just  by  a  spring  of 
pure  sweet  water  that  stole  out  of  the  side  of 
a  hill  ;  and  how,  when  it  was  over,  one  of  the 
party  read  old  Izaak  Walton's  scene  with  the 
milkmaid,  while  I  lay  on  the  grass  and  built 
castles  in  a  bright  pile  of  clouds,  until  I  fell 
asleep.  All  this  may  appear  like  mere  ego 
tism  ;  yet  I  cannot  refrain  from  uttering  these 
recollections,  which  are  passing  like  a  strain 
of  music  over  my  mind,  and  have  been  called 
up  by  an  agreeable  scene  which  I  witnessed 
not  long  since. 

In  a  morning's  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the 
Alun,  a  beautiful  little  stream  which  flows 
down  from  the  Welsh  hills  and  throws  itself 
into  the  Dee,  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a 
group  seated  on  the  margin.  On  approaching, 
I  found  it  to  consist  of  a  veteran  angler  and 
two  rustic  disciples.  The  former  was  an  old 
fellow  with  a  wooden  leg,  with  clothes  very 
much  but  very  carefully  patched,  betokening 
poverty,  honestly  come  by,  and  decently  main 
tained.  His  face  bore  the  marks  of  former 
storms,  but  present  fair  weather  ;  its  furrows 
had  been  worn  into  an  habitual  smile ;  his 


dbc  Biutlcr 


iron-gray  locks  hung  about  his  ears,  and  he 
hud  altogether  the  good-humored  air  of  a  con 
stitutional  philosopher  who  was  disposed  to 
take  the  world  as  it  went.  One  of  his  com 
panions  was  a  ragged  wight,  with  the  skulk 
ing  look  of  an  arrant  poacher,  and  I  '11  war 
rant  could  find  his  way  to  any  gentleman's 
fish-pond  in  the  neighborhood  in  the  darkest 
night.  The  other  was  a  tall,  awkward,  coun 
try  lad,  with  a  lounging  gait,  and  apparently 
somewhat  of  a  rustic  beau.  The  old  man  was 
busy  in  examining  the  maw  of  a  trout  which 
he  had  just  killed,  to  discover  by  its  contents 
what  insects  were  seasonable  for  bait ;  and  was 
lecturing  on  the  subject  to  his  companions, 
who  appeared  to  listen  with  infinite  deference. 
I  have  a  kind  feeling  towards  all  "  brothers  of 
the  angle,"  ever  since  I  read  Izaak  Walton. 
They  are  men,  he  affirms,  of  a  "mild,  sweet, 
and  peaceable  spirit";  and  my  esteem  for 
them  has  been  increased  since  I  met  with  an 
old  Trctyse  of  Fishing  with  the  Angle  in  which 
are  set  forth  many  of  the  maxims  of  their  in 
offensive  fraternity.  "Take  good  hede,"  say- 
eth  this  honest  little  tretyse,  "that  in  going 
about  your  disportes  ye  open  no  man's  gates 
but  that  ye  shet  them  again.  Also  ye  shall 
not  use  this  forsayd  crafti  disport  for  no  covet- 
ousness  to  the  encreasing  and  sparing  of  your 


238 


money  only,  but  principally  for  your  solace, 
and  to  cause  the  helth  of  your  body  and  spe- 
cyally  of  your  soule."* 

I  thought  that  I  could  perceive  in  the  vet 
eran  angler  before  me  an  exemplification  of 
what  I  had  read  ;  and  there  was  a  cheerful  con- 
tentedness  in  his  looks  that  quite  drew  me 
towards  him.  I  could  not  but  remark  the  gal 
lant  manner  in  which  he  stumped  from  one 
part  of  the  brook  to  another ;  waving  his  rod 
in  the  air,  to  keep  the  line  from  dragging  on 
the  ground  or  catching  among  the  bushes  ;  and 
the  adroitness  with  which  he  would  throw  his 
fly  to  any  particular  place  ;  sometimes  skim 
ming  it  lightly  along  a  little  rapid,  sometimes 
casting  it  into  one  of  those  dark  holes  made 
by  a  twisted  root  or  overhanging  bank,  in 
which  the  large  trout  are  apt  to  lurk.  In  the 
meanwhile  he  was  giving  instructions  to  his 

*  From  this  same  treatise,  it  would  appear  that  an 
gling  is  a  more  industrious  and  devout  employment 
than  it  is  generally  considered. — "  For  when  ye  pur 
pose  to  go  on  your  disportes  in  fishynge  ye  will  not 
desyre  greatlye  many  persons  with  you,  which  might 
let  you  of  your  game.  And  that  ye  may  serve  God 
devoutly  in  sayinge  effectually  your  customable  pray 
ers.  And  thus  doying,  ye  shall  eschew  and  also 
avoide  many  vices,  as  ydelnes,  which  is  principall 
cause  to  induce  man  to  many  other  vices,  as  it  is 
right  well  known." 


A:     \^':    '."'""'•vliV  /~± 
||^^|^1i^ 


Cbc  Biuilcr 


239 


l\vo  disciples;  showing  them  the  manner  in 
which  they  should  handle  their  rods,  fix  their 
flies,  and  play  them  along  the  surface  of  the 
stream.  The  scene  brought  to  my  mind  the 
instructions  of  the  sage  Piscator  to  his  scholar. 
The  country  around  was  of  that  pastoral  kind 
which  Walton  is  fond  of  describing.  It  was  a 
part  of  the  great  plain  of  Cheshire,  close  by 
the  beautiful  vale  of  Gessford,  and  just  where 
the  inferior  Welsh  hills  begin  to  swell  up  from 
among  fresh-swelling  meadows.  The  day,  too, 
like  that  recorded  in  his  work,  was  mild  and 
sunshiny,  with  now  and  then  a  soft-dropping 
shower,  that  sowed  the  whole  earth  with  dia 
monds. 

I  soon  fell  into  conversation  with  the  old  an 
gler,  and  was  so  much  entertained  that,  under 
pretext  of  receiving  instructions  in  his  art,  I 
kept  company  with  him  almost  the  whole  day  ; 
wandering  along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  and 
listening  to  his  talk.  He  was  very  communi 
cative,  having  all  the  easy  garrulity  of  cheerful 
old  age  ;  and  I  fancy  was  a  little  flattered  by 
having  an  opportunity  of  displaying  his  pis 
catory  lore  ;  for  who  does  not  like  now  and 
then  to  play  the  sage  ? 

He  had  been  much  of  a  rambler  in  his  day, 
and  had  passed  some  years  of  his  youth  in 
America,  particularly  in  Savannah,  where  he 


240 


Cbe  SfcetcbOBoofc 


had  entered  into  trade,  and  had  been  ruined 
by  the  indiscretion  of  a  partner.  He  had 
afterwards  experienced  many  ups  and  downs 
in  life,  until  he  got  into  the  navy,  where  his 
leg  was  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball,  at 
the  battle  of  Camperdown.  This  was  the  only 
stroke  of  real  good-fortune  he  had  ever  experi 
enced,  for  it  got  him  a  pension,  which,  to 
gether  with  some  small  paternal  property, 
brought  him  in  a  revenue  of  nearly  forty 
pounds.  On  this  he  retired  to  his  native  vil 
lage,  where  he  lived  quietly  and  indepen 
dently  ;  and  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life 
to  the  "  noble  art  of  angling." 

I  found  that  he  had  read  Izaak  Walton  at 
tentively,  and  he  seemed  to  have  imbibed  all 
his  simple  frankness  and  prevalent  good- 
humor.  Though  he  had  been  sorely  buffeted 
about  the  world,  he  was  satisfied  that  the 
world,  in  itself,  was  good  and  beautiful. 
Though  he  had  been  as  roughly  used  in  differ 
ent  countries  as  a  poor  sheep  that  is  fleeced 
by  every  hedge  and  thicket,  yet  he  spoke  of 
every  nation  with  candor  and  kindness,  ap 
pearing  to  look  only  on  the  good  side  of 
things  ;  and,  above  all,  he  was  almost  the  only 
man  I  had  ever  met  with  who  had  been  an  un 
fortunate  adventurer  in  America,  and  had  hon 
esty  and  magnanimity  enough  to  take  the  fault 


Cbe 


to  his  own  door,  and  not  to  curse  the  country. 
The  lad  that  was  receiving  his  instructions,  I 
learnt,  was  the  son  and  heir  apparent  of  a  fat 
old  widow  who  kept  the  village  inn,  and  of 
course  a  youth  of  some  expectation,  and  much 
courted  by  the  idle  gentlemanlike  personages 
of  the  place.  In  taking  him  under  his  care, 
therefore,  the  old  man  had  probably  an  eye  to 
a  privileged  corner  in  the  tap-room,  and  an 
occasional  cup  of  cheerful  ale  free  of  expense. 
There  is  certainly  something  in  angling,  if 
we  could  forget,  which  anglers  are  apt  to  do, 
the  cruelties  and  tortures  inflicted  on  worms 
and  insects,  that  tends  to  produce  a  gentle 
ness  of  spirit,  and  a  pure  serenity  of  mind. 
As  the  English  are  methodical  even  in  their 
recreations,  and  are  the  most  scientific  of 
sportsmen,  it  has  been  reduced  among  them 
to  perfect  rule  and  system.  Indeed  it  is  an 
amusement  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  mild  and 
highly  cultivated  scenery  of  England,  where 
every  roughness  has  been  softened  away  from 
the  landscape.  It  is  delightful  to  saunter 
along  those  limpid  streams  which  wander,  like 
veins  of  silver,  through  the  bosom  of  this 
beautiful  country  ;  leading  one  through  a 
diversity  of  small  home  scenery  ;  sometimes 
winding  through  ornamented  grounds  ;  some 
times  brimming  along  through  rich  pasturage, 

VOL.  II.— 16 


" 


242 


where  the  fresh  green  is  mingled  with  sweet- 
smelling  flowers  ;  sometimes  venturing  in  sight 
of  villages  and  hamlets,  and  then  running 
capriciously  away  into  shady  retirements. 
The  sweetness  and  serenity  of  nature,  and  the 
quiet  watchfulness  of  the  sport,  gradually 
bring  on  pleasant  fits  of  musing,  which  are 
now  and  then  agreeably  interrupted  by  the 
song  of  a  bird,  the  distant  whistle  of  the  peas 
ant,  or  perhaps  the  vagary  of  some  fish,  leap 
ing  out  of  the  still  water,  and  skimming  tran 
siently  about  its  glassy  surface.  "When  I 
would  beget  content,"  says  Izaak  Walton, 
"  and  increase  confidence  in  the  power  and 
wisdom  and  providence  of  Almighty  God,  I 
will  walk  the  meadows  by  some  gliding  stream, 
and  there  contemplate  the  lilies  that  take  no 
care,  and  those  very  many  other  little  living 
creatures  that  are  not  only  created  but  fed 
(man  knows  not  how)  by  the  goodness  of  the 
God  of  nature,  and  therefore  trust  in  him." 

I  cannot  forbear  to  give  another  quotation 
from  one  of  those  ancient  champions  of  an 
gling,  which  breathes  the  same  innocent  and 
happy  spirit  : 

"  I^et  me  live  harmlessly,  and  near  the  brink 

Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling-place, 
Where  I  may  see  my  quill,  or  cork,  down  sink, 
With  eager  bite  of  pike,  or  bleak,  or  dace  ; 


Cbc  Busier 


24.* 


And  on  the  world  and  my  Creator  think  : 
Whilst  some  men  strive  ill-gotten  goods  t'  em 
brace  : 

And  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess 
Of  wine,  or  worse,  in  war,  or  wantonness. 

"  Let  them  that  will,  these  pastimes  still  pursue. 
And  on  such  pleasing  fancies  feed  their  fill ; 

So  I  the  fields  and  meadows  green  may  view, 
And  daily  by  fresh  river  walk  at  will, 

Among  the  daisies  and  the  violets  bl  ue, 
Red  hyacinth  and  yellow  daffodil."* 

On  parting  with  the  old  angler  I  inquired 
after  his  place  of  abode  ;  and  happening  to  be 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  village  a  few  even 
ings  afterwards,  I  had  the  curiosity  to  seek 
him  out.  I  found  him  living  in  a  small  cot 
tage,  containing  only  one  room,  but  a  perfect 
curiosity  in  its  method  and  arrangement.  It 
was  on  the  skirts  of  the  village,  on  a  green 
bank,  a  little  back  from  the  road,  with  a  small 
garden  in  front,  stocked  with  kitchen-herbs, 
and  adorned  with  a  few  flowers.  The  whole 
front  of  the  cottage  was  overrun  with  a  honey 
suckle.  On  the  top  was  a  ship  for  a  weather 
cock.  The  interior  was  fitted  up  in  a  truly 
nautical  style,  his  ideas  of  comfort  and  conven 
ience  having  been  acquired  on  the  berth-deck 
of  a  man-of-war.  A  hammock  was  slung  from 
*  J.  Davors. 


244 


{Tbe  Sfcetcb<fBoofc 


the  ceiling,  which,  in  the  day-time,  was  lashed 
up  so  as  to  take  but  little  room.  From  the 
centre  of  the  chamber  hung  a  model  of  a  ship, 
of  his  own  workmanship.  Two  or  three  chairs, 
a  table,  and  a  large  sea-chest,  formed  the  prin 
cipal  movables.  About  the  wall  were  stuck  up 
naval  ballads,  such  as  "  Admiral  Hosier's 
Ghost,"  "  All  in  the  Downs,"  and  "  Tom  Bow 
line,"  intermingled  with  pictures  of  sea-fights, 
among  which  the  battle  of  Camperdown  held 
a  distinguished  place.  The  mantelpiece  was 
decorated  with  sea-shells ;  over  which  hung 
a  quadrant,  flanked  by  two  wood-cuts  of 
most  bitter-looking  naval  commanders.  His 
implements  for  angling  were  carefully  disposed 
on  nails  and  hooks  about  the  room.  On  a 
shelf  was  arranged  his  library,  containing  a 
work  on  angling,  much  worn,  a  Bible  covered 
with  canvas,  an  odd  volume  or  two  of  voyages, 
a  nautical  almanac,  and  a  book  of  songs. 

His  family  consisted  of  a  large  black  cat 
with  one  eye,  and  a  parrot  which  he  had 
caught  and  tamed,  and  educated  himself  in  the 
course  of  one  of  his  voyages ;  and  which 
uttered  a  variety  of  sea-phrases  with  the  hoarse 
brattling  tone  of  a  veteran  boatswain.  The 
establishment  reminded  me  of  that  of  the 
renowned  Robinson  Crusoe  ;  it  was  kept  in  neat 
order,  everything  being  "stowed  away  "  with 


Gbc  Hiuilcr 


245 


the  regularity  of  a  ship-of-war  ;  and  he  informed 
me  that  he  "  scoured  the  deck  every  morning, 
and  swept  it  between  meals." 

I  found  him  seated  on  a  bench  before  the 
door,  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  soft  evening  sun 
shine.  His  cat  was  purring  soberly  on  the 
threshold,  and  his  parrot  describing  some 
strange  evolutions  in  an  iron  ring  that  swung 
in  the  centre  of  his  cage.  He  had  been  an 
gling  all  day,  and  gave  me  a  history  of  his 
sport  with  as  much  minuteness  as  a  general 
would  talk  over  a  campaign  ;  being  particularly 
animated  in  relating  the  manner  in  which  he 
had  taken  a  large  trout,  which  had  completely 
tasked  all  his  skill  and  wariness,  and  which  he 
had  sent  as  a  trophy  to  mine  hostess  of  the  inn. 

How  comforting  it  is  to  see  a  cheerful  and 
contented  old  age  ;  and  to  behold  a  poor  fellow, 
like  this,  after  being  tempest-tost  through  life, 
safely  moored  in  a  snug  and  quiet  harbor  in 
the  evening  of  his  days  !  His  happiness,  how 
ever,  sprung  from  within  himself,  and  was  in 
dependent  of  external  circumstances  ;  for  he 
had  that  inexhaustible  good-nature,  which 
is  the  most  precious  gift  of  Heaven, — spread 
ing  itself  like  oil  over  the  troubled  sea  of 
thought,  and  keeping  the  mind  smooth  and 
equable  in  the  roughest  weather. 

On  inquiring  further  about  him,  I  learned 


that  he  was  a  universal  favorite  in  the  village, 
and  the  oracle  of  the  tap-room  ;  where  he  de 
lighted  the  rustics  with  his  songs,  and,  like 
Sinbad,  astonished  them  with  his  stories  of 
strange  lands,  and  shipwrecks,  and  sea-fights. 
He  was  much  noticed  too  by  gentlemen  sports 
men  of  the  neighborhood  ;  had  taught  several 
of  them  the  art  of  angling  ;  and  was  a  privi 
leged  visitor  to  their  kitchens.  The  whole 
tenor  of  his  life  was  quiet  and  inoffensive, 
being  principally  passed  about  the  neighbor 
ing  streams,  when  the  weather  and  season  were 
favorable  ;  and  at  other  times  he  employed 
himself  at  home,  preparing  his  fishing-tackle 
for  the  next  campaign,  or  manufacturing  rods, 
nets,  and  flies,  for  his  patrons  and  pupils  among 
the  gentry. 

He  was  a  regular  attendant  at  church  on 
Sundays,  though  he  generally  fell  asleep  dur 
ing  the  sermon.  He  had  made  it  his  particu 
lar  request  that  when  he  died  he  should  be 
buried  in  a  green  spot,  which  he  could  see 
from  his  seat  in  church,  and  which  he  had 
marked  out  ever  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  had 
thought  of  when  far  from  home  on  the  raging 
sea,  in  danger  of  being  food  for  the  fishes  ; — 
it  was  the  spot  where  his  father  and  mother 
had  been  buried. 

I    have  done,  for  I  fear  that  my  reader  is 


p^p» 


Cbc  Bmilcr 


growing  weary  ;  but  I  could  not  refrain  from 
drawing  the  picture  of  this  worthy  "  brother 
of  the  angle,"  who  has  made  me  more  than 
ever  in  love  with  the  theory,  though  I  fear  I 
shall  never  be  adroit  in  the  practice  of  his  art  ; 
and  I  will  conclude  this  rambling  sketch  in  the 
words  of  honest  Izaak  Walton,  by  craving  the 
blessing  of  St.  Peter's  master  upon  my  reader, 
' '  and  upon  all  that  are  true  lovers  of  virtue  ; 
and  dare  trust  in  his  providence  ;  and  be  quiet ; 
and  go  a-angling." 


Ube  SLecjenfc  of  Sleepy  Ibollow 

FOUND   AMONG  THE   PAPERS  OF  THE  I,ATE  DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER. 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy  head  it  was, 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye, 

And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky. 

Castle  of  Indolence. 

N  the  bosom  of  one  of 
those  spacious  coves 
which  indent  the  east 
ern  shore  of  the  Hud 
son,  at  that  broad 
expansion  of  the  river 
denominated  by  the  an 
cient  Dutch  navigators 
the  Tappan  Zee,  and 
where  they  always  pru 
dently  shortened  sail, 

and  implored  the  protection  of  St.  Nicholas 
when  they  crossed,  there  lies  a  small  market- 
town  or  rural  port,  which  by  some  is  called 
Greensburgh,  but  which  is  more  generally  and 
properly  known  by  the  name  of  Tarry  Town. 


m 


Cbc  legend  of  Slccpv;  Ibollow 


249 


This  name  was  given,  we  are  told,  in  former 
days,  by  the  good  housewives  of  the  adjacent 
country,  from  tlie  inveterate  propensity  of  their 
husbands  to  linger  about  the  village  tavern  on 
market-days.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  do  not 
vouch  for  the  fact,  but  merely  advert  to  it  for 
the  sake  of  being  precise  and  authentic.  Not 
far  from  this  village,  perhaps  about  two  miles, 
there  is  a  little  valley,  or  rather  lap  of  land, 
among  high  hills,  which  is  one  of  the  quietest 
places  in  the  whole  world.  A  small  brook 
glides  through  it,  with  just  murmur  enough 
to  lull  one  to  repose  ;  and  the  occasional 
whistle  of  a  quail,  or  tapping  of  a  woodpecker, 
is  almost  the  only  sound  that  ever  breaks  in 
upon  the  uniform  tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first 
exploit  in  squirrel-shooting  was  in  a  grove  of 
tall  walnut-trees  that  shades  one  side  of  the 
valley.  I  had  wandered  into  it  at  noon-time, 
when  all  nature  is  particularly  quiet,  and  was 
startled  by  the  roar  of  my  own  gun,  as  it 
broke  the  Sabbath  stillness  around,  and  was 
prolonged  and  reverberated  by  the  angry 
echoes.  If  ever  I  should  wish  for  a  retreat, 
whither  I  might  steal  from  the  world  and  its 
distractions,  and  dream  quietly  away  the  rem 
nant  of  a  troubled  life,  I  know  of  none  more 
promising  than  this  little  valley. 


1 


' 


From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the 
peculiar  character  of  its  inhabitants,  who  are 
descendants  from  the  original  Dutch  settlers, 
this  sequestered  glen  has  long  been  known  by 
the  name  of  SLEEPY  Hollow,  and  its  rustic 
lads  are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Boys 
throughout  all  the  neighboring  country.  A 
drowsy,  dreamy  influence  seems  to  hang  over 
the  land,  and  to  pervade  the  very  atmosphere. 
Some  say  that  the  place  was  bewitched  by  a 
high  German  doctor,  during  the  early  days  of 
the  settlement  ;  others,  that  an  old  Indian 
chief,  the  prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held 
his  pow-wows  there  before  the  country  was 
discovered  by  Master  Hendrick  Hudson.  Cer 
tain  it  is,  the  place  still  continues  under  the 
sway  of  some  bewitching  power,  that  holds  a 
spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good  people,  caus 
ing  them  to  walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They 
are  given  to  all  kinds  of  marvellous  beliefs  ;  are 
subject  to  trances  and  visions  ;  and  frequently 
see  strange  sights,  and  hear  music  and  voices 
in  the  air.  The  whole  neighborhood  abounds 
with  local  tales,  haunted  spots,  and  twilight 
superstitions  ;  stars  shoot  and  meteors  glare 
oftener  across  the  valley  than  in  any  other 
part  of  the  country,  and  the  nightmare,  with 
her  whole  ninefold,  seems  to  make  it  the  favor 
ite  scene  of  her  gambols. 


-^   ; 


Cbc  XecicnD  of  Slccpv?  1xMlo\v 


251 


The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts 
this  enchanted  region,  and  seems  to  be  com- 
muiider-in-chief  of  all  the  powers  of  the  air, 
is  the  apparition  of  a  figure  on  horseback  with 
out  a  head.  It  is  said  by  some  to  be  the  ghost 
of  a  Hessian  trooper,  whose  head  had  been 
carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball,  in  some  name 
less  battle  during  the  Revolutionary  War,  and 
who  is  ever  and  anon  seen  by  the  country  folk, 
hurrying  along  in  the  gloom  of  night,  as  if  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind.  His  haunts  are  not 
confined  to  the  valley,  but  extend  at  times  to 
the  adjacent  roads,  and  especially  to  the  vicin 
ity  of  a  church  at  no  great  distance.  Indeed, 
certain  of  the  most  authentic  historians  of 
those  parts,  who  have  been  careful  in  collecting 
and  collating  the  floating  facts  concerning  this 
spectre,  allege  that  the  body  of  the  trooper, 
having  been  buried  in  the  churchyard,  the 
ghost  rides  forth  to  the  scene  of  battle  in 
nightly  quest  of  his  head  ;  and  that  the  rush 
ing  speed  with  which  he  sometimes  passes 
along  the  Hollow,  like  a  midnight  blast,  is 
owing  to  his  being  belated,  and  in  a  hurry  to 
get  back  to  the  churchyard  before  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary 
superstition,  which  has  furnished  materials  for 
many  a  wild  story  in  that  region  of  shadows ; 
and  the  spectre  is  known,  at  all  the  country 


firesides,  by  the  name  of  the  Headless  Horse 
man  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  propen 
sity  I  have  mentioned  is  not  confined  to  the 
native  inhabitants  of  the  valley,  but  is  uncon 
sciously  imbibed  by  every  one  who  resides 
there  for  a  time.  However  wide  awake  they 
may  have  been  before  they  entered  that  sleepy 
region,  they  are  sure,  in  a  little  time,  to  inhale 
the  witching  influence  of  the  air,  and  begin  to 
grow  imaginative,  to  dream  dreams,  and  see 
apparitions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible 
laud  ;  for  it  is  in  such  little  retired  Dutch  val 
leys,  found  here  and  there  embosomed  in  the 
great  State  of  New  York,  that  population, 
manners,  and  customs  remain  fixed  ;  while  the 
great  torrent  of  migration  and  improvement, 
which  is  making  such  incessant  changes  in 
other  parts  of  this  restless  country,  sweeps  by 
them  unobserved.  They  are  like  those  little 
nooks  of  still  water  which  border  a  rapid 
stream  ;  where  we  may  see  the  straw  and  bub 
ble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly  revolv 
ing  in  their  mimic  harbor,  undisturbed  by  the 
rush  of  the  passing  current.  Though  many 
years  have  elapsed  since  I  trod  the  drowsy 
shades  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  question 
whether  I  should  not  still  find  the  same  trees 


ft  v 


Cbc  TLecicnD  of  Slccpv?  t>ollo\v 


and  the  same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered 
bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature,  there  abode,  in  a 
remote  period  of  American  history,  that  is  to 
say,  some  thirty  years  since,  a  worthy  wight 
of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane  ;  who  sojourned, 
or,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  tarried,"  in  Sleepy 
Hollow,  for  the  purpose  of  instructing  the 
children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was  a  native  of 
Connecticut,  a  State  which  supplies  the  Union 
with  pioneers  for  the  mind  as  well  as  for  the 
forest,  and  sends  forth  yearly  its  legions  of 
frontier  woodsmen  and  country  schoolmasters. 
The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not  inapplicable 
to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly 
lank,  with  narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and 
legs,  hands  that  dangled  a  mile  out  of  his 
sleeves,  feet  that  might  have  served  for  shovels, 
and  his  whole  frame  most  loosely  hung 
together.  His  head  was  small,  and  flat  at  top, 
with  huge  ears,  large  green  glassy  eyes,  and  a 
long  snipe  nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a 
weathercock  perched  upon  his  spindle  neck,  to 
tell  which  way  the  wind  blew.  To  see  him 
striding  along  the  profile  of  a  hill  on  a  windy 
day,  with  his  clothes  bagging  and  fluttering 
about  him,  one  might  have  mistaken  him  for 
the  genius  of  famine  descending  upon  the  earth, 
or  some  scarecrow  eloped  from  a  corn-field. 


His  school-house  was  a  low  building  of  one 
large  room,  rudely  constructed  of  logs  ;  the 
windows  partly  glazed,  and  partly  patched 
with  leaves  of  old  copy-books.  It  was  most 
ingeniously  secured  at  vacant  hours  by  a 
withe  twisted  in  the  handle  of  the  door,  and 
stakes  set  against  the  window-shutters  ;  so  that, 
though  a  thief  might  get  in  with  perfect  ease,  he 
would  find  some  embarrassment  in  getting  out : 
an  idea  most  probably  borrowed  by  the  archi 
tect,  Yost  Van  Houten,  from  the  mystery  of 
an  eel-pot.  The  school-house  stood  in  a  rather 
lonely  but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot 
of  a  woody  hill,  with  a  brook  running  close  by, 
and  a  formidable  birch-tree  growing  at  one  end 
of  it.  From  hence  the  low  murmur  of  his 
pupils'  voices,  conning  over  their  lessons, 
might  be  heard  on  a  drowsy  summer's  day, 
like  the  hum  of  a  bee-hive  ;  interrupted  now 
and  then  by  the  authoritative  voice  of  the 
master,  in  the  tone  of  menace  or  command  ; 
or,  peradventure,  by  the  appalling  sound  of 
the  birch,  as  he  urged  some  tardy  loiterer  along 
the  flowery  path  of  knowledge.  Truth  to  say, 
he  was  a  conscientious  man,  and  ever  bore  in 
mind  the  golden  maxim,  "  Spare  the  rod  and 
spoil  the  child." — Ichabod  Crane's  scholars 
certainly  were  not  spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that 


Cbe  XciicnC*  of  Slccpt?  t>ollow 


255 


he  was  one  of  those  cruel  potentates  of  the 
school,  who  joy  in  the  smart  of  their  subjects  ; 
on  the  contrary,  he  administered  justice  with 
discrimination  rather  than  severity,  taking  the 
burden  off  the  backs  of  the  weak,  and  laying 
it  on  those  of  the  strong.  Your  mere  puny 
stripling,  that  winced  at  the  least  flourish  of 
the  rod,  was  passed  by  with  indulgence  ;  but 
the  claims  of  justice  were  satisfied  by  inflicting 
a  double  portion  on  some  little,  tough,  wrong- 
headed,  broad-skirted  Dutch  urchin,  who 
sulked  and  swelled  and  grew  dogged  and  sullen 
beneath  the  birch.  All  this  he  called  "doing 
his  duty"  by  their  parents;  and  he  never 
inflicted  a  chastisement  without  following  it 
by  the  assurance,  so  consolatory  to  the  smarting 
urchin,  that  "  he  would  remember  it,  and  thank 
him  for  it  the  longest  day  he  had  to  live." 

When  school- hours  were  over,  he  was  even 
the  companion  and  playmate  of  the  larger 
boys  ;  and  on  holiday  afternoons  would  convoy 
some  of  the  smaller  ones  home,  who  happened 
to  have  pretty  sisters,  or  good  housewives  for 
mothers,  noted  for  the  comforts  of  the  cup 
board.  Indeed  it  behooved  him  to  keep  on 
good  terms  with  his  pupils.  The  revenue 
arising  from  his  school  was  small,  and  would 
have  been  scarcely  sufficient  to  furnish  him 
with  daily  bread,  for  he  was  a  huge  feeder, 


256 


and,  though  lank,  had  the  dilating  powers  of 
an  anaconda  ;  but  to  help  out  his  maintenance, 
he  was,  according  to  country  custom  in  those 
parts,  boarded  and  lodged  at  the  houses  of  the 
farmers,  whose  children  he  instructed.  With 
these  he  lived  successively  a  week  at  a  time  ; 
thus  going  the  rounds  of  the  neighborhood, 
with  all  his  worldly  effects  tied  up  in  a  cotton 
handkerchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the 
purses  of  his  rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt  to 
consider  the  costs  of  schooling  a  grievious  bur 
den,  and  schoolmasters  as  mere  drones,  he  had 
various  ways  of  rendering  himself  both  useful 
and  agreeable.  He  assisted  the  farmers  occa 
sionally  in  the  lighter  labors  of  their  farms  ; 
helped  to  make  hay  ;  mended  the  fences  ;  took 
the  horses  to  water  ;  drove  the  cows  from  pas 
ture  ;  and  cut  wood  for  the  winter  fire.  He 
laid  aside,  too,  all  the  dominant  dignity  and 
absolute  sway  with  which  he  lorded  it  in 
his  little  empire,  the  school,  and  became 
wonderfully  gentle  and  ingratiating.  He 
found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  mothers,  by  pet 
ting  the  children,  particularly  the  youngest  ; 
and  like  the  lion  bold,  which  whilom  so  mag 
nanimously  the  lamb  did  hold,  he  would  sit 
with  a  child  on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle 
with  his  foot  for  whole  hours  together. 


V 


\ 


Cbe  XcgcnD  ot  Sleeps  t>ollo\v 


In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the 
singing-master  of  the  neighborhood,  and  picked 
up  many  bright  shillings  by  instructing  the 
young  folks  in  psalmody.  It  was  a  matter  of 
no  little  vanity  to  him,  on  Sundays,  to  take  his 
station  in  front  of  the  church-gallery,  with  a 
band  of  chosen  singers  ;  where,  in  his  own 
mind,  he  completely  carried  away  the  palm 
from  the  parson.  Certain  it  is,  his  voice  re 
sounded  far  above  all  the  rest  of  the  congrega 
tion  ;  and  there  are  peculiar  quavers  still  to  be 
heard  in  that  church,  and  which  may  even  be 
heard  half  a  mile  off,  quite  to  the  opposite  side 
of  the  mill-pond,  on  a  still  Sunday  morning, 
which  are  said  to  be  legitimately  descended 
from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane.  Thus,  by 
divers  little  makeshifts  in  that  ingenious  way 
which  is  commonly  denominated  "by  hook 
and  by  crook,"  the  worthy  pedagogue  got  on 
tolerably  enough,  and  was  thought,  by  all  who 
understood  nothing  of  the  labor  of  headwork, 
to  have  a  wonderfully  easy  life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  some 
importance  in  the  female  circle  of  a  rural  neigh 
borhood  ;  being  considered  a  kind  of  idle, 
gentleman-like  personage,  of  vastly  superior 
taste  and  accomplishments  to  the  rough  coun 
try  swains,  and,  indeed,  inferior  in  learning 
only  to  the  parson.  His  appearance,  therefore, 

VOL.  II. — 17 


258 


Cbe  Sfcetcb<fBoofc 


is  apt  to  occasion  some  little  stir  at  the  tea-table 
of  a  farm-house,  and  the  addition  of  a  super 
numerary  dish  of  cakes  or  sweet-meats,  or,  per- 
adventure,  the  parade  of  a  silver  tea-pot.  Our 
man  of  letters,  therefore,  was  peculiarly  happy 
in  the  smiles  of  all  the  country  damsels.  How 
he  would  figure  among  them  in  the  church 
yard,  between  services  on  Sundays  !  gathering 
grapes  for  them  from  the  wild  vines  that  over 
run  the  surrounding  trees  ;  reciting  for  their 
amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  the  tombstones  ; 
or  sauntering,  with  a  whole  bevy  of  them,  along 
the  banks  of  the  adjacent  mill-pond  ;  while  the 
more  bashful  country  bumpkins  hung  sheep 
ishly  back,  envying  his  superior  elegance  and 
address. 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a 
kind  of  travelling  gazette,  carrying  the  whole 
budget  of  local  gossip  from  house  to  house  :  so 
that  his  appearance  was  always  greeted  with 
satisfaction.  He  was,  moreover,  esteemed  by 
the  women  as  a  man  of  great  erudition,  for  he 
had  read  several  books  quite  through,  and  was 
a  perfect  master  of  Cotton  Mather's  History  of 
New  England  Witchcraft,  in  which,  by  the  way, 
he  most  firmly  and  potently  believed. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small 
shrewdness  and  simple  credulity.  His  appetite 
for  the  marvellous,  and  his  powers  of  digesting 


Gbc  XegenD  of  Sleeps  Dollow          a59 

it,  were  equally  extraordinary  ;  and  both  had 
been  increased  by  his  residence  in  this  spell 
bound  region.  No  tale  was  too  gross  or  mon 
strous  for  his  capacious  swallow.  It  was  often 
his  delight,  after  his  school  was  dismissed  in 
the  afternoon,  to  stretch  himself  on  the  rich 
bed  of  clover  bordering  the  little  brook  that 
whimpered  by  his  school-house,  and  there  con 
over  old  Mather's  direful  tales,  until  the  gather 
ing  dusk  of  the  evening  made  the  printed  page 
a  mere  mist  before  his  eyes.  Then,  as  he 
wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and  stream,  and 
awful  woodland,  to  the  farm-house  where  he 
happened  to  be  quartered,  every  sound  of  na 
ture,  at  that  witching  hour,  fluttered  his  excited 
imagination  ;  the  moan  of  the  whippoorwill* 
from  the  hill-side ;  the  boding  cry  of  the  tree- 
toad,  that  harbinger  of  storm  ;  the  dreary  hoot 
ing  of  the  screech-owl,  or  the  sudden  rustling 
in  the  thicket  of  birds  frightened  from  their 
roost.  The  fire-flies,  too,  which  sparkled  most 
vividly  in  the  darkest  places,  now  and  then 
startled  him,  as  one  of  uncommon  brightness 
would  stream  across  his  path  ;  and  if,  by  chance, 
a  huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle  came  winging  his 
blundering  flight  against  him,  the  poor  varlet 

*  The  whippoorwill  is  a  bird  which  is  only  heard  at 
night.  It  receives  its  name  from  its  note,  which  is 
thought  to  resemble  those  words. 


IV* 


260 

was  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost,  with  the  idea 
that  he  was  struck  with  a  witch's  token, 
only  resource  on  such  occasions,  either  to  drown 
thought  or  drive  away  evil  spirits,  was  to  sing 
psalm-tunes  ;  and  the  good  people  of  Sleepy 
Hollow,  as  they  sat  by  their  doors  of  an  even 
ing  were  often  filled  with  awe,  at  hearing  his 
nas'al  melody,  "  in  linked  sweetness  long  drawn 
out,"  floating  from  the  distant  hill,  or  along 
the  dusky  road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure 
was,  to  pass  long  winter  evenings  with  the  old 
Dutch  wives,  as  they  sat  spinning  by  the  fire, 
with  a  row  of  apples  roasting  and  spluttering 
along  the  hearth,  and  listen  to  their  marvellous 
tales  of  ghosts  and  goblins,  and  haunted  fields, 
and  haunted  brooks,  and  haunted  bridges,  and 
haunted  houses,  and  particularly  of  the  head 
less  horseman,  or  Galloping   Hessian   of  th< 
Hollow,  as  they  sometimes  called   him. 
would  delight  them  equally  by  his  anecdotes 
of  witchcraft,   and  of  the   direful   omens  and 
portentous  sights  and  sounds  in  the  air,  which 
prevailed  in  the  earlier  times  of  Connecticut ; 
and  would  frighten  them  wofully  with  specula 
tions  upon  comets  and  shooting-stars,  and  with 
the  alarming  fact  that  the  world  did  absolutely 
turn  round,  and  that  they  were  half  the  time 
topsy-turvy 

— — — 

~ 


' 


,- 


261 


But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while 
snugly  cuddling  in  the  chimney-corner  of  a 
chamber  that  was  all  of  a  ruddy  glow  from  the 
crackling  wood- fire,  and  where,  of  course,  no 
spectre  dared  to  show  his  face,  it  was  dearly 
purchased  by  the  terrors  of  his  subsequent 
walk  homewards.  What  fearful  shapes  and 
shadows  beset  his  path  amidst  the  dim  and 
ghastly  glare  of  a  snowy  night  ! — With  what 
wistful  look  did  he  eye  every  trembling  ray  of 
light  streaming  across  the  waste  fields  from 
some  distant  window  ! — How  often  was  he 
appalled  by  some  shrub  covered  with  snow, 
which,  like  a  sheeted  spectre,  beset  his  very 
path  ! — How  often  did  he  shrink  with  curdling 
awe  at  the  sound  of  his  own  steps  on  a  frosty 
crust  beneath  his  feet  ;  and  dread  to  look  over 
his  shoulder,  lest  he  should  behold  some  un 
couth  being  tramping  close  behind  him  ! — and 
how  often  was  he  thrown  into  complete  dismay 
by  some  rushing  blast,  howling  among  the 
trees,  in  the  idea  that  it  was  the  Galloping 
Hessian  on  one  of  his  nightly  scourings  ! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the 
night,  phantoms  of  the  mind  that  walk  in  dark 
ness  ;  and  though  he  had  seen  many  spectres 
in  his  time,  and  been  more  than  once  beset  by 
Satan  in  divers  shapes,  in  his  lonely  perambu 
lations,  yet  daylight  put  an  end  to  all  these 


262 


evils  ;  and  he  would  have  passed  a  pleasant 
life  of  it,  in  despite  of  the  devil  and  all  his 
works,  if  his  path  had  not  been  crossed  by  a 
being  that  causes  more  perplexity  to  mortal 
man  than  ghosts,  goblins,  and  the  whole  race 
of  witches  put  together,  and  that  was — a 
woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled, 
one  evening  in  each  week,  to  receive  his  instruc 
tions  in  psalmody,  was  Katrina  Van  Tassel,  the 
daughter  and  only  child  of  a  substantial  Dutch 
farmer.  She  was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh  eigh 
teen  ;  plump  as  a  partridge  ;  ripe  and  melting 
and  rosy-cheeked  as  one  of  her  father's  peaches, 
and  universally  famed,  not  merely  for  her 
beauty,  but  her  vast  expectations.  She  was 
withal  a  little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  per 
ceived  even  in  her  dress,  which  was  a  mixture 
of  ancient  and  modern  fashions,  as  most  suited 
to  set  off  her  charms.  She  wore  the  ornaments 
of  pure  yellow  gold,  which  her  great-great- 
grandmother  had  brought  over  from  Saardam  ; 
the  tempting  stomacher  of  the  olden  time ; 
and  withal  a  provokingly  short  petticoat,  to 
display  the  prettiest  foot  and  ankle  in  the 
country  round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart 
towards  the  sex  ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  so  tempting  a  morsel  soon  found  favor 


Cbc  Xoicitf  of  Slccpp  tbollow 


•69 


in  his  eyes  ;  more  especially  after  he  had 
visited  her  in  her  paternal  mansion.  Old 
Baltus  Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect  picture  of  a 
thriving,  contented,  liberal-hearted  farmer. 
He  seldom,  it  is  true,  sent  either  his  eyes  or 
his  thoughts  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  own 
farm  ;  but  within  those  everything  was  snug, 
happy,  and  well-conditioned.  He  was  satis 
fied  with  his  wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it ;  and 
piqued  himself  upon  the  hearty  abundance 
rather  than  the  style  in  which  he  lived.  His 
stronghold  was  situated  on  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson,  in  one  of  those  green,  sheltered, 
fertile  nooks  in  which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so 
fond  of  nestling.  A  great  elm-tree  spread  its 
broad  branches  over  it ;  at  the  foot  of  which 
bubbled  up  a  spring  of  the  softest  and  sweetest 
water,  in  a  little  well,  formed  of  a  barrel  ;  and 
then  stole  sparkling  away  through  the  grass, 
to  a  neighboring  brook,  that  bubbled  along 
among  alders  and  dwarf  willows.  Hard  by  the 
farm-house  was  a  vast  barn,  that  might  have 
served  for  a  church  ;  every  window  and  crevice 
of  which  seemed  bursting  forth  with  the  treas 
ures  of  the  farm  ;  the  flail  was  busily  resound 
ing  within  it  from  morning  till  night  ;  swallows 
and  martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the 
eaves ;  and  rows  of  pigeons,  some  with  one 
eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the  weather, 


'    > 


v 


Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


some  with  their  heads  under  their  wings,  or 
buried  in  their  bosoms,  and  others  swelling, 
and  cooing,  and  bowing  about  their  dames, 
were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the  roof.  Sleek 
unwieldly  porkers  were  grunting  in  the  repose 
and  abundance  of  their  pens  ;  whence  sallied 
forth,  now  and  then,  troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as 
if  to  snuff  the  air.  A  stately  squadron  of 
snowy  geese  were  riding  in  an  adjoining  pond, 
convoying  whole  fleets  of  ducks  ;  regiments  of 
turkeys  were  gobbling  through  the  farm-yard, 
and  guinea  fowls  fretting  about  it,  like  ill- 
tempered  housewives,  with  their  peevish  dis 
contented  cry.  Before  the  barn-door  strutted 
the  gallant  cock,  that  pattern  of  a  husband,  a 
warrior,  and  a  fine  gentleman,  clapping  his 
burnished  wings,  and  crowing  in  the  pride  and 
gladness  of  his  heart — sometimes  tearing  up  the 
earth  with  his  feet,  and  then  generously  call 
ing  his  ever-hungry  family  of  wives  and  chil 
dren  to  enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which  he  had 
discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he 
looked  upon  this  sumptuous  promise  of  luxuri 
ous  winter  fare.  In  his  devouring  mind's  eye 
he  pictured  to  himself  every  roasting-pig 
running  about  with  a  pudding  in  his  belly,  and 
an  apple  in  his  mouth  ;  the  pigeons  were 
snugly  put  to  bed  in  a  comfortable  pie,  and 


J 


Cbe 


of  Sleeps 


265 


: 


tucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of  crust  ;  the  geese 
were  swimming  in  their  own  gravy  ;  and  the 
ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like  snug  mar 
ried  couples,  with  a  decent  competency  of 
onion-sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw  carved  out 
the  future  sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy  relish 
ing  ham  ;  not  a  turkey  but  he  beheld  daintily 
trussed  up,  with  its  gizzard  under  its  wing, 
and,  perad  venture,  a  necklace  of  savory 
sausages  ;  and  even  bright  chanticleer  himself 
lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  in  a  side-dish,  with 
uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving  that  quarter  which 
his  chivalrous  spirit  disdained  to  ask  while 
living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this, 
and  as  he  rolled  his  great  green  eyes  over  the 
fat  meadow-lands,  the  rich  fields  of  wheat,  of 
rye,  of  buckwheat,  and  Indian  corn,  and  the 
orchard  burdened  with  ruddy  fruit,  which  sur 
rounded  the  warm  tenement  of  Van  Tassel,  his 
heart  yearned  after  the  damsel  who  was  to 
inherit  these  domains,  and  his  imagination 
expanded  with  the  idea  how  they  might  be 
readily  turned  into  cash,  and  the  money  in 
vested  in  immense  tracts  of  wild  land,  and 
shingle  palaces  in  the  wilderness.  Nay,  his 
busy  fancy  already  realized  his  hopes,  and  pre 
sented  to  him  the  blooming  Katrina,  with  a 
whole  family  of  children,  mounted  on  the  top 


• 


266 


Cbe  5fcetcb*:fi3oofc 


of  a  wagon  loaded  with  household  trumpery, 
with  pots  and  kettles  dangling  beneath  ;  and 
he  beheld  himself  bestriding  a  pacing  mare, 
with  a  colt  at  her  heels,  setting  out  for  Ken 
tucky,  Tennessee,  or  the  Lord  knows  where. 

When  he  entered  the  house,  the  conquest  of 
his  heart  was  complete.  It  was  one  of  those  spa 
cious  farm-houses,  with  high-ridged,  but  lowly- 
sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style  handed  down 
from  the  first  Dutch  settlers  ;  the  low  project 
ing  eaves  forming  a  piazza  along  the  front, 
capable  of  being  closed  up  in  bad  weather. 
Under  this  were  hung  flails,  harness,  various 
utensils  of  husbandry,  and  nets  for  fishing  in 
the  neighboring  river.  Benches  were  built 
along  the  sides  for  summer  use  ;  and  a  great 
spinning-wheel  at  one  end,  and  a  churn  at  the 
other,  showed  the  various  uses  to  which  this 
important  porch  might  be  devoted.  From  this 
piazza  the  wandering  Ichabod  entered  the 
hall,  which  formed  the  centre  of  the  mansion 
and  the  place  of  usual  residence.  Here,  rows 
of  resplendent  pewter,  ranged  on  a  long  dresser, 
dazzled  his  eyes.  In  one  corner  stood  a  huge 
bag  of  wool  ready  to  be  spun  ;  in  another  a 
quantity  of  linsey-woolsey  just  from  the  loom  ; 
ears  of  Indian  corn,  and  strings  of  dried  apples 
and  peaches,  hung  in  gay  festoons  along  the 
walls,  mingled  with  the  gaud  of  red  peppers ; 

•r^fey^ 


Cbe 


of  Sleeps  1bollo\v 


267 


and  a  door  left  ajar  gave  him  a  peep  into  the 
best  parlor,  where  the  claw-footed  chairs  and 
dark  mahogany  tables  shone  like  mirrors  ;  and 
irons,  with  their  accompanying  shovel  and 
tongs,  glistened  from  their  covert  of  asparagus 
tops ;  mock-oranges  and  conch-shells  deco 
rated  the  mantel-piece  ;  strings  of  various  col 
ored  birds'  eggs  were  suspended  above  it,  a 
great  ostrich  egg  was  hung  from  the  centre  of 
the  room,  and  a  corner-cupboard,  knowingly 
left  open,  displayed  immense  treasures  of  old 
silver  and  well-mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes 
upon  these  regions  of  delight,  the  peace  of 
his  mind  was  at  an  end,  and  his  only  study 
was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peerless 
daughter  of  Van  Tassel.  In  this  enterprise, 
however,  he  had  more  real  difficulties  than 
generally  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  knight-errant  of 
yore,  who  seldom  had  anything  but  giants, 
enchanters,  fiery  dragons,  and  such  like  easily 
conquered  adversaries,  to  contend  with  ;  and 
had  to  make  his  way  merely  through  gates  of 
iron  and  brass,  and  walls  of  adamant,  to  the 
castle-keep,  where  the  lady  of  his  heart  was 
confined  ;  all  which  he  achieved  as  easily  as  a 
man  would  carve  his  way  to  the  centre  of  a 
Christmas  pie  ;  and  then  the  lady  gave  him 
her  hand  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ichabod,  on 


268 


Cbe  Sfcetcb^JBoofc 


the  contrary,  had  to  win  his  way  to  the 
heart  of  a  country  coquette,  beset  with  a 
labyrinth  of  whims  and  caprices,  which  were 
forever  presenting  new  difficulties  and  impedi 
ments  ;  and  he  had  to  encounter  a  host  of 
fearful  adversaries  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  the 
numerous  rustic  admirers,  who  beset  every 
portal  to  her  heart ;  keeping  a  watchful  and 
angry  eye  upon  each  other,  but  ready  to  fly 
out  in  the  common  cause  against  any  new  com 
petitor. 

Among  these  the  most  formidable  was  a 
burly,  roaring,  roistering  blade,  of  the  name 
of  Abraham,  or,  according  to  the  Dutch  ab 
breviation,  Brom  Van  Brunt,  the  hero  of  the 
country  round,  which  rang  with  his  feats  of 
strength  and  hardihood.  He  was  broad- 
shouldered  and  double-jointed,  with  short, 
curly  black  hair,  and  a  bluff  but  not  unpleas 
ant  countenance,  having  a  mingled  air  of  fun 
and  arrogance.  From  his  Herculean  frame 
and  great  powers  of  limb,  he  had  received  the 
nickname  of  BROM  BONKS,  by  which  he  was 
universally  known.  He  was  famed  for  great 
knowledge  and  skill  in  horsemanship,  being 
as  dexterous  on  horseback  as  a  Tartar.  He 
was  foremost  at  all  races  and  cockfights  ;  and, 
with  the  ascendency  which  bodily  strength 
acquires  in  rustic  life,  was  the  umpire  in  all 


',     s 


fej 


Cbc  XciicnD  of  Sleeps  t>cllo\v 


disputes,  setting  his  hat  on  one  side,  and  giv 
ing  his  decisions  with  an  air  and  tone  admit 
ting  of  no  gainsay  or  appeal.  He  was  always 
ready  for  either  a  fight  or  a  frolic  ;  but  had 
more  mischief  than  ill-will  in  his  composition  ; 
and,  with  all  his  overbearing  roughness,  there 
was  a  strong  dash  of  waggish  good-humor  at 
the  bottom.  He  had  three  or  four  boon  com 
panions,  who  regarded  him  as  their  model, 
and  at  the  head  of  whom  he  scoured  the 
country,  attending  every  scene  of  feud  or  mer 
riment  for  miles  round.  In  cold  weather  he 
was  distinguished  by  a  fur  cap,  surmounted 
with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail  ;  and  when 
the  folks  at  a  country  gathering  descried 
this  well-known  crest  at  a  distance,  whisking 
about  among  a  squad  of  hard  riders,  they  al 
ways  stood  by  for  a  squall.  Sometimes  his 
crew  would  be  heard  dashing  along  past  the 
farm-houses  at  midnight,  with  whoop  and 
halloo,  like  a  troop  of  Don  Cossacks  ;  and  the 
old  dames,  startled  out  of  their  sleep,  would 
listen  for  a  moment  till  the  hurry-scurry  had 
clattered  by,  and  then  exclaim,  "Ay,  there 
goes  Brom  Bones  and  his  gang  ! ' '  The 
neighbors  looked  upon  him  with  a  mixture 
of  awe,  admiration,  and  good-will  ;  and  when 
any  madcap  prank,  or  rustic  brawl,  occurred 
in  the  vicinity,  always  shook  their  heads,  and 


-•"• 


warranted  Brom  Bones  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it. 

This  rantipole  hero  had  for  some  time 
singled  out  the  blooming  Katrina  for  the  object 
of  his  uncouth  gallantries ;  and  though  his 
amorous  toyings  were  something  like  the 
gentle  caresses  and  endearments  of  a  bear,  yet 
it  was  whispered  that  she  did  not  altogether 
discourage  his  hopes.  Certain  it  is,  his  ad 
vances  were  signals  for  rival  candidates  to 
retire,  who  felt  no  inclination  to  cross  a  line  in 
his  amours  ;  insomuch,  that,  when  his  horse 
was  seen  tied  to  Van  Tassel's  paling  on  a 
Sunday  night,  a  sure  sign  that  his  master  was 
courting,  or,  as  it  is  termed,  "  sparking," 
within,  all  other  suitors  passed  by  in  despair, 
and  carried  the  war  into  other  quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom 
Ichabod  Crane  had  to  contend,  and,  consider 
ing  all  things,  a  stouter  man  than  he  would 
have  shrunk  from  the  competition,  and  a  wiser 
man  would  have  despaired.  He  had,  how 
ever,  a  happy  mixture  of  pliability  and  per 
severance  in  his  nature  ;  he  was  in  form  and 
spirit  like  a  supple-jack — yielding,  but  tough  ; 
though  he  bent,  he  never  broke  ;  and  though 
he  bowed  beneath  the  slightest  pressure  yet,  the 
moment  it  was  away — jerk  !  he  was  as  erect, 
and  carried  his  head  as  high  as  ever. 


Cbc  Xcticno  of  Sleep*?  "bellow 


To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his 
rival  would  have  been  madness  ;  for  he  was 
not  a  man  to  be  thwarted  in  his  amours,  any 
more  than  that  stormy  lover,  Achilles.  Icha- 
bod,  therefore,  made  his  advances  in  a  quiet 
and  gently  insinuating  manner.  Under  cover 
of  his  character  of  singing-master,  he  had 
made  frequent  visits  at  the  farm-house  ;  not 
that  he  had  anything  to  apprehend  from  the 
meddlesome  interference  of  parents,  which  is 
so  often  a  stumbling-block  in  the  path  of 
lovers.  Bait  Van  Tassel  was  an  easy,  indul 
gent  soul ;  he  loved  his  daughter  better  even 
than  his  pipe,  and,  like  a  reasonable  man  and 
an  excellent  father,  let  her  have  her  way  in 
everything.  His  notable  little  wife,  too,  had 
enough  to  do  to  attend  to  her  housekeeping 
and  manage  her  poultry  ;  for,  as  she  sagely 
observed,  ducks  and  geese  are  foolish  things, 
and  must  be  looked  after,  but  girls  can  take 
care  of  themselves.  Thus  while  the  busy 
dame  bustled  about  the  house,  or  plied  her 
spinning-wheel  at  one  end  of  the  piazza, 
honest  Bait  would  sit  smoking  his  evening 
pipe  at  the  other,  watching  the  achievements 
of  a  little  wooden  warrior,  who,  armed  with  a 
sword  in  each  hand,  was  most  valiantly  fight 
ing  the  wind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  barn.  In 
the  meantime,  Ichabod  would  carry  on  his 


272 


suit  with  the  daughter  by  the  side  of  the 
spring  under  the  great  elm,  or  sauntering  along 
in  the  twilight, — that  hour  so  favorable  to  the 
lover's  eloquence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts 
are  wooed  and  won.  To  me  they  have  always 
been  matters  of  riddle  and  admiration.  Some 
seem  to  have  but  one  vulnerable  point  or  door 
of  access,  while  others  have  a  thousand  ave 
nues,  and  may  be  captured  in  a  thousand  dif 
ferent  ways.  It  is  a  great  triumph  of  skill  to 
gain  the  former,  but  a  still  greater  proof  of 
generalship  to  maintain  possession  of  the  latter, 
for  the  man  must  battle  for  his  fortress  at 
every  door  and  window.  He  who  wins  a  thou 
sand  common  hearts  is  therefore  entitled  to  some 
renown  ;  but  he  who  keeps  undisputed  sway 
over  the  heart  of  a  coquette,  is  indeed  a  hero. 
Certain  it  is,  this  was  not  the  case  with  the  re 
doubtable  Brom  Bones  ;  and  from  the  moment 
Ichabod  Crane  made  his  advances,  the  interests 
of  the  former  evidently  declined  ;  his  horse  was 
no  longer  seen  tied  at  the  palings  on  Sunday 
nights,  and  a  deadly  feud  gradually  arose  be 
tween  him  and  the  preceptor  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

Brom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry 
in  his  nature,  would  fain  have  carried  matters 
to  open  warfare,  and  have  settled  their  preten 
sions  to  the  lady  according  to  the  mode  of  those 


In  //  'Jiabod  would  ( 

on  A 


Cbc  Xccicnfr  of  Sleeps  tollow 


most  concise  and  simple  reasoners,  theknighls- 
errant  of  yore — by  single  combat ;  but  Ichabod 
was  too  conscious  of  the  superior  might  of  his 
adversary  to  enter  the  lists  against  him  :  he 
had  overheard  a  boast  of  Bones,  that  he  would 
"  double  the  schoolmaster  up,  and  lay  him  on 
a  shelf  of  his  own  school-house  ;  ' '  and  he  was 
too  wary  to  give  him  an  opportunity.  There 
was  something  extremely  provoking  in  this 
obstinately  pacific  system  ;  .it  left  Brom  no  al 
ternative  but  to  draw  upon  the  funds  of  rustic 
waggery  in  his  disposition,  and  to  play  off 
boorish  practical  jokes  upon  his  rival.  Icha 
bod  became  the  object  of  whimsical  persecu 
tion  to  Bones  and  his  gang  of  rough  riders. 
They  harried  his  hitherto  peaceful  domains ; 
smoked  out  his  singing-school,  by  stopping  up 
the  chimney  ;  broke  into  the  .school-house  at 
night,  in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings  of 
withe  and  window-stakes,  and  turned  every-. 
thing  topsy-turvy  :  so  that  the  poor  school 
master  began  to  think  all  the  witches  in  the 
country  held  their  meetings  there.  But  what 
was  still  more  annoying,  Brom  took  opportuni 
ties  of  turning  him  into  ridicule  in  presence  of 
his  mistress,  and  had  a  scoundrel  dog  whom 
he  taught  to  whine  in  the  most  ludicrous 
manner,  and  introduced  as  a  rival  of  Ichabod's 
to  instruct  her  in  psalmody. 

VOL.  II.  — 18 


274 


Sfcetcb<«3oofc 


In  this  way  matters  went  on  for  some  time, 
without  producing  any  material  effect  on  the 
relative  situation  of  the  contending  powers. 
On  a  fine  autumnal  afternoon,  Ichabod,  in  pen 
sive  mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the  lofty  stool 
whence  he  usually  watched  all  the  concerns  of 
his  little  literary  realm.  In  his  hand  he  swayed 
a  ferule,  that  sceptre  of  despotic  power  ;  the 
birch  of  justice  reposed  on  three  nails,  behind 
the  throne,  a  constant  terror  to  evil-doers  ; 
while  on  the  desk  before  him  might  be  seen 
sundry  contraband  articles  and  prohibited 
weapons,  detected  upon  the  persons  of  idle 
urchins ;  such  as  half-munched  apples,  pop 
guns,  whirligigs,  fly-cages,  and  whole  legions 
of  rampant  little  paper  game-cocks.  Appar 
ently  there  had  been  some  appalling  act  of 
justice  recently  inflicted,  for  his  scholars  were 
all  busily  intent  upon  their  books,  or  slyly 
whispering  behind  them  with  one  eye  kept 
upon  the  master  ;  and  a  kind  of  buzzing  still 
ness  reigned  throughout  the  school-room.  It 
was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  appearance 
of  a  negro,  in  tow-cloth  jacket  and  trousers,  a 
round-crowned  fragment  of  a  hat,  like  the  cap 
of  Mercury,  and  mounted  on  the  back  of  a 
ragged,  wild,  half-broken  colt,  which  he  man 
aged  with  a  rope  by  way  of  halter.  He  came 
clattering  up  to  the  school-door  with  an  invita- 


Cbc 


of  Sleeps  tbollow 


275 


tion  to  Ichabod  to  attend  a  merry-making  or 
"quilting  frolic,"  to  be  held  that  evening  at 
Mynheer  Van  Tassel's;  and  having  delivered 
his  message  with  that  air  of  importance,  and 
effort  at  fine  language,  which  a  negro  is  apt  to 
display  on  petty  embassies  of  the  kind,  he 
dashed  over  the  brook,  and  was  seen  scamper 
ing  away  up  the  Hollow,  full  of  the  importance 
and  hurry  of  his  mission. 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late 
quiet  school-room.  The  scholars  were  hurried 
through  their  lessons,  without  stopping  at 
trifles  ;  those  who  were  nimble  skipped  over 
half  with  impunity,  and  those  who  were  tardy 
had  a  smart  application  now  and  then  in  the 
rear,  to  quicken  their  speed,  or  help  them  over 
a  tall  word.  Books  were  flung  aside  without 
being  put  away  on  the  shelves,  inkstands  were 
overturned,  benches  thrown  down,  and  the 
whole  school  was  turned  loose  an  hour  before 
the  usual  time,  bursting  forth  like  a  legion  of 
young  imps,  yelping  and  racketing  about  the 
green,  in  joy  at  their  earl 3*  emancipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an 
extra  half-hour  at  his  toilet,  brushing  and  fur 
bishing  up  his  best  and  indeed  only  suit  of 
rusty  black,  and  arranging  his  locks  by  a  bit 
of  broken  looking-glass,  that  hung  up  in  the 
school-house.  That  he  might  make  his  ap- 


, 


5fcetcb*;JBoofc 


pearance  before  his  mistress  in  the  true  style 
of  a  cavalier,  he  borrowed  a  horse  from  the 
farmer  with  whom  he  was  domiciliated,  a  chol 
eric  old  Dutchman,  of  the  name  of  Hans  Van 
Ripper,  and,  thus  gallantly  mounted,  issued 
forth,  like  a  knight-errant  in  quest  of  adven 
tures.  But  it  is  meet  I  should,  in  the  true 
spirit  of  romantic  story,  give  some  account  of 
the  looks  and  equipments  of  my  hero  and  his 
steed.  The  animal  he  bestrode  was  a  broken- 
down  plough-horse,  that  had  outlived  almost 
everything  but  his  viciousness.  He  was  gaunt 
and  shagged,  with  a  ewe  neck  and  a  head  like 
a  hammer  ;  his  rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tan 
gled  and  knotted  with  burrs  ;  one  eye  had  lost 
its  pupil,  and  was  glaring  and  spectral  ;  but 
the  other  had  the  gleam  of  a  genuine  devil  in 
it.  Still  he  must  have  had  fire  and  mettle  in 
his  day,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  name  he 
bore  of  Gunpowder.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  a 
favorite  steed  of  his  master's,  the  choleric  Van 
Ripper,  who  was  a  furious  rider,  and  had 
infused,  very  probably,  some  of  his  own  spirit 
into  the  animal  ;  for,  old  and  broken-down  as 
he  looked,  there  was  more  of  the  lurking  devil 
in  him  than  in  any  young  filly  in  the  country. 
Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a 
steed.  He  rode  with  short  stirrups,  which 
brought  his  knees  nearly  up  to  the  pommel  of  the 


.- 


ft* 


Cbc  XcflcnD  of  Sleepy  t>cllo\v 


saddle  ;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck  out  like  grass 
hoppers'  ;  he  carried  his  whip  perpendicularly 
in  his  hand,  like  a  sceptre,  and,  as  his  horse 
jogged  on,  the  motion  of  his  arms  was  not 
unlike  the  flapping  of  a  pair  of  wings.  A 
small  wool  hat  rested  on  the  top  of  his  nose, 
for  so  his  scanty  strip  of  forehead  might  be 
called  ;  and  the  skirts  of  his  black  coat  flut 
tered  out  almost  to  the  horse's  tail.  Such  was 
the  appearance  of  Ichabod  and  his  steed,  as 
they  shambled  out  of  the  gate  of  Hans  Van 
Ripper,  and  it  was  altogether  such  an  appari 
tion  as  is  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  broad  day 
light. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal  day, 
the  sky  was  clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore 
that  rich  and  golden  livery  which  we  always 
associate  with  the  idea  of  abundance.  The 
forests  had  put  on  their  sober  brown  and  yel 
low,  while  some  trees  of  the  tenderer  kind  had 
been  nipped  by  the  frosts  into  brilliant  dyes  of 
orange,  purple,  and  scarlet.  Streaming  files 
of  wild  ducks  began  to  make  their  appearance 
high  in  the  air  ;  the  bark  of  the  squirrel  might 
be  heard  from  the  groves  of  beech  and  hickory 
nuts,  and  the  pensive  whistle  of  the  quail  at 
intervals  from  the  neighboring  stubble-field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell 
banquets.  In  the  fulness  of  their  revelry,  they 


fluttered,  chirping  and  frolicking,  from  bush 
to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree,  capricious  from  the 
very  profusion  and  variety  around  them.  There 
was  the  honest  cockrobin,  the  favorite  game  of 
stripling  sportsmen,  with  its  loud  querulous 
notes ;  and  the  twittering  blackbirds  flying  in 
sable  clouds  ;  and  the  golden-winged  wood 
pecker,  with  his  crimson  crest,  his  broad  black 
gorget,  and  splendid  plumage  ;  and  the  cedar- 
bird,  with  its  red-tipt  wings  and  yellow-tipt 
tail,  and  its  little  monteiro  cap  of  feathers  ;  and 
the  blue  jay,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  in  his  gay 
light-blue  coat  and  white  under-clothes,  scream 
ing  and  chattering,  nodding  and  bobbing  and 
bowing,  and  pretending  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  every  songster  of  the  grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his 
eye,  ever  open  to  every  symptom  of  culinary 
abundance,  ranged  with  delight  over  the  treas 
ures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides  he  beheld 
vast  store  of  apples  ;  some  hanging  in  oppres 
sive  opulence  on  the  trees  ;  some  gathered  into 
baskets  and  barrels  for  the  market  ;  others 
heaped  up  in  rich  piles  for  the  cider-press. 
Farther  on  he  beheld  great  fields  of  Indian 
corn,  with  its  golden  ears  peeping  from  their 
leafy  coverts,  and  holding  out  the  promise  of 
cakes  and  hasty-pudding  ;  and  the  yellow 
pumpkins  lying  beneath  them,  turning  up  their 

- 


Cbc  lc0cnD  of  Sleeps  1x>Uc\v 


179 


lair  roun<l  bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample, 
prospects  of  the  most  luxurious  of  pies  ;  and 
anon  he  passed  the  fragrant  buckwheat  fields, 
breathing  the  odor  of  the  bee-hive,  and  as  he 
beheld  them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over  his 
mind  of  dainty  slapjacks,  well  buttered,  and 
garnished  with  honey  or  treacle,  by  the  delicate 
little  dimpled  hand  of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet 
thoughts  and  "sugared  suppositions,"  he 
journeyed  along  the  sides  of  a  range  of  hills 
which  look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest 
scenes  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  grad 
ually  wheeled  his  broad  disk  down  into  the 
west.  The  wide  bosom  of  the  Tappan  Zee 
lay  motionless  and  glossy,  excepting  that  here 
and  there  a  gentle  undulation  waved  and  pro 
longed  the  blue  shadow  of  the  distant  moun 
tain.  A  few  amber  clouds  floated  in  the  sky, 
without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them.  The 
horizon  was  of  a  fine  golden  tint,  changing 
gradually  into  a  pure  apple-green,  and  from 
that  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  mid-heaven.  A 
slanting  ray  lingered  on  the  woody  crests  of 
the  precipices  that  overhung  some  parts  of  the 
river,  giving  greater  depth  to  the  dark-gray 
and  purple  of  their  rocky  sides.  A  sloop  was 
loitering  in  the  distance,  dropping  slowly  down 
with  the  tide,  her  sail  hanging  uselessly  against 


280 


Sfcetcb=:fiSoofc 


the  mast  ;  and  as  the  reflection  of  the  sky 
gleamed  along  the  still  water,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  vessel  was  suspended  in  the  air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived 
at  the  castle  of  the  Heer  Van  Tassel,  which  he 
found  thronged  with  the  pride  and  flower  of 
the  adjacent  country.  Old  farmers,  a  spare 
leathern-faced  race,  in  homespun  coats  and 
breeches,  blue  stockings,  huge  shoes,  and 
magnificent  pewter  buckles.  Their  brisk 
withered  little  dames,  in  close  crimped  caps, 
long-waisted  shortgowns,  homespun  petticoats, 
with  scissors  and  pincushions,  and  gay  calico 
pockets  hanging  on  the  outside.  Buxom  lasses, 
almost  as  antiquated  as  their  mothers,  except 
ing  where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribbon,  or  perhaps 
a  white  frock,  gave  symptoms  of  city  innova 
tion.  The  sons,  in  short  square-skirted  coats 
with  rows  of  stupendous  brass  buttons,  and 
their  hair  generally  queued  in  the  fashion  of 
the  times,  especially  if  they  could  procure  an 
eel-skin  for  the  purpose,  it  being  esteemed, 
throughout  the  country,  as  a  potent  nourisher 
and  strengthener  of  the  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the 
scene,  having  come  to  the  gathering  on  his 
favorite  steed,  Daredevil,  a  creature,  like  him 
self,  full  of  mettle  and  mischief,  and  which  no 
one  but  himself  could  manage.  He  was,  in 


t 


Cbc  XcflcnD  of  SIccpg  1bollo\v 


fact,  noted  for  preferring  vicious  animals, 
given  to  all  kinds  of  tricks,  which  kept  the 
rider  in  constant  risk  of  his  neck,  for  he  held 
a  tractable  well-broken  horse  as  unworthy  of  a 
lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world 
of  charms  that  burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze 
of  my  hero,  as  he  entered  the  state  parlor  of 
Van  Tassel's  mansion.  Not  those  of  the  bevy 
of  buxom  lasses,  with  their  luxurious  display 
of  red  and  white  ;  but  the  ample  charms  of  a 
genuine  Dutch  country  tea-table,  in  the  sump 
tuous  time  of  autumn.  Such  heaped- up  plat 
ters  of  cakes  of  various  and  almost  indescribable 
kinds,  known  only  to  experienced  Dutch  house 
wives  !  There  was  the  doughty  doughnut,  the 
tenderer  oly  koek,  and  the  crisp  and  crumbling 
cruller ;  sweet  cakes  and  .short  cakes,  ginger- 
cakes  and  honey-cakes,  and  the  whole  family 
of  cakes.  And  then  there  were  apple-pies  and 
peach-pies  and  pumpkin-pies  ;  besides  slices 
of  ham  and  smoked  beef ;  and  moreover  delect 
able  dishes  of  preserved  plums,  and  peaches, 
and  pears,  and  quinces  ;  not  to  mention  broiled 
shad  and  roasted  chickens  ;  together  with  bowls 
of  milk  and  cream,  all  mingled  higgledy-pig 
gledy,  pretty  much  as  I  have  enumerated  them, 
with  the  motherly  tea-pot  sending  up  its  clouds 
of  vapor  from  the  inidst — Heaven  bless  the 


Sfcetcb^oofc 


mark  !  I  want  breath  and  time  to  discuss  this 
banquet  as  it  deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to  get 
on  with  my  story.  Happily,  Ichabod  Crane 
was  not  in  so  great  a  hurry  as  his  historian, 
but  did  ample  justice  to  every  dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature,  whose 
heart  dilated  in  proportion  as  his  skin  was 
rilled  with  good  cheer  ;  and  whose  spirits  rose 
with  eating  as  some  men's  do  with  drink.  He 
could  not  help,  too,  rolling  his  large  eyes  round 
him  as  he  ate,  and  chuckling  with  the  possi 
bility  that  he  might  one  day  be  lord  of  all  this 
scene  of  almost  unimaginable  luxury  and 
splendor.  Then,  he  thought,  how  soon  he  'd 
turn  his  back  upon  the  old  school-house  ;  snap 
his  fingers  in  the  face  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and 
every  other  niggardly  patron,  and  kick  any 
itinerant  pedagogue  out-of-doors  that  should 
dare  to  call  him  comrade  ! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among 
his  guests  with  a  face  dilated  with  content  and 
good-humor,  round  and  jolly  as  the  harvest- 
moon.  His  hospitable  attentions  were  brief, 
but  expressive,,  being  confined  to  a  shake  of 
the  hand,  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  a  loud  laugh, 
and  a  pressing  invitation  to  "  fall  to,  and  help 
themselves.  '  ' 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the 
common  room,  or  hall,  summoned  to  the  dance. 


Cbc  Xccjcnfc  of  Sleepy  t>oilo\v 


283 


The  musician  was  an  old  gray-headed  negro, 
who  had  been  the  itinerant  orchestra  of  the 
neighborhood  for  more  than  half  a  century. 
His  instrument  was  as  old  and  battered  as 
himself.  The  greater  part  of  the  time  he 
scraped  on  two  or  three  strings,  accompanying 
every  movement  of  the  bow  with  a  motion  of 
the  head  ;  bowing  almost  to  the  ground,  and 
.stamping  with  his  foot  whenever  a  fresh 
couple  were  to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as 
much  as  upon  his  vocal  powers.  Not  a  limb, 
not  a  fibre  about  him  was  idle  ;  and  to  have 
seen  his  loosely  jutng  frame  in  full  motion, 
and  clattering  about  tiij  room,  you  would  have 
thought  Saint  Vitus  himself,  that  blessed 
patron  of  the  dance,  was  figuring  before  you 
in  person.  He  was  the  admiration  of  all  the 
negroes  ;  who,  having  gathered,  of  all  ages 
and  sizes,  from  the  farm  and  the  neighborhood, 
stood  forming  a  pyramid  of  shining  black  faces 
at  every  door  and  window,  gazing  with  de 
light  at  the  scene,  rolling  their  white  eyeballs, 
and  showing  grinning  rows  of  ivory  from  ear 
to  ear.  How  could  the  flogger  of  urchins  be 
otherwise  than  animated  and  joyous?  the 
lady  of  his  heart  was  his  partner  in  the  dance, 
and  smiling  graciously  in  reply  to  all  his  amo 
rous  oglings  ;  while  Brom  Bones,  sorely  smitten 


284 


with  love  and  jealousy,  sat  brooding  by  him 
self  in  one  corner. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was 
attracted  to  a  knot  of  the  sager  folks,  who, 
with  old  Van  Tassel,  sat  smoking  at  one  end 
of  the  piazza,  gossiping  over  former  times, 
and  drawing  out  long  stories  about  the  war. 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I 
am  speaking,  was  one  of  those  highly  favored 
places  which  abound  with  chronicle  and  great 
men.  The  British  and  American  line  had  run 
near  it  during  the  war  ;  it  had,  therefore,  been 
the  scene  of  marauding,  and  infested  with 
refugees,  cow-boys,  and  all  kinds  of  border 
chivalry.  Just  sufficient  time  has  elapsed  to 
enable  each  story-teller  to  dress  up  his  tale 
with  a  little  becoming  fiction,  and,  in  the  indis 
tinctness  of  his  recollection,  to  make  himself 
the  hero  of  every  exploit. 

There  was  the  story  of  Doffue  Martling,  a 
large  blue-bearded  Dutchman,  who  had  nearly 
taken  a  British  frigate  with  an  old  iron  nine- 
pounder  from  a  mud  breastwork,  only  that  his 
gun  burst  at  the  sixth  discharge.  And  there 
was  an  old  gentleman  who  shall  be  nameless, 
being  too  rich  a  mynheer  to  be  lightly  men 
tioned,  who,  in  the  battle  of  White  Plains, 
being  an  excellent  master  of  defence,  parried  a 
musket-ball  with  a  small  sword,  insomuch  that 


Ichabod  Prided  Himself  as  J\. 


'     I         >i 

•L^s^f\ 
A  4HTV 


Cbc  Xccicnfc  ot  Sleeps  IxMlcxv 


he  absolutely  felt  it  whiz  round  the  blade,  and 
glance  off  at  the  hilt  ;  in  proof  of  which  he  was 
ready  at  any  time  to  show  the  sword,  with  the 
hilt  a  little  bent.  There  were  several  more 
that  had  been  equally  great  in  the  field,  not 
one  of  whom  but  was  persuaded  that  he  had  a 
considerable  hand  in  bringing  the  war  to  a 
happy  termination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of 
ghosts  and  apparitions  that  succeeded.  The 
neighborhood  is  rich  in  legendary  treasures  of 
the  kind.  Local  tales  and  superstitions  thrive 
best  in  these  sheltered  long-settled  retreats  ; 
but  are  trampled  underfoot  by  the  shifting 
throng  that  forms  the  population  of  most  of 
our  country  places.  Besides,  there  is  no  en 
couragement  for  ghosts  in  most  of  our  vil 
lages,  for  they  have  scarcely  had  time  to  finish 
their  first  nap,  and  turn  themselves  in  their 
graves  before  their  surviving  friends  have 
travelled  away  from  the  neighborhood  ;  so  that 
when  they  turn  out  at  night  to  walk  their 
rounds,  the}'  have  no  acquaintance  left  to  call 
upon.  This  is  perhaps  the  reason  why  we  so 
seldom  hear  of  ghosts,  except  in  our  long- 
established  Dutch  communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  preva 
lence  of  supernatural  stories  in  these  parts  was 
doubtless  owing  to  the  vicinity  of  Sleepy  Hol- 


285 


'. 


low.  There  was  a  contagion  in  the  very  air 
that  blew  from  that  haunted  region ;  it 
breathed  forth  an  atmosphere  of  dreams  and 
fancies  infecting  all  the  land.  Several  of  the 
Sleepy  Hollow  people  were  present  at  Van 
Tassel's  and,  as  usual,  were  doling  out  their 
wild  and  wonderful  legends.  Many  dismal 
tales  were  told  about  funeral  trains,  and 
mourning  cries  and  wailings  heard  and  seen 
about  the  great  tree  where  the  unfortunate 
Major  Andre  was  taken,  and  which  stood  in 
the  neighborhood.  Some  mention  was  made 
also  of  the  woman  in  white,  that  haunted  the 
dark  glen  at  Raven  Rock,  and  was  often  heard 
to  shriek  on  winter  nights  before  a  storm, 
having  perished  there  in  the  snow.  The  chief 
part  of  the  stories,  however,  turned  upon  the 
favorite  spectre  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the  headless 
horseman,  who  had  been  heard  several  times 
of  late,  patrolling  the  country  ;  and,  it  was 
said,  tethered  his  horse  nightly  among  the 
graves  in  the  churchyard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church 
seems  always  to  have  made  it  a  favorite  haunt 
of  troubled  spirits.  It  stands  on  a  knoll,  sur 
rounded  by  locust-trees  and  lofty  elms,  from 
among  which  its  decent  whitewashed  walls 
shine  modestly  forth,  like  Christian  purity 
beaming  through  the  shades  of  retirement.  A 


a  be 


of  Slccpv?  tbollow 


287 


gentle  slope  descends  from  it  to  a  silver  sheet 
of  water,  bordered  by  high  trees,  bet  ween 
which,  peeps  may  be  caught  at  the  blue  hills 
of  the  Hudson.  To  look  upon  its  grass-grown 
yard,  where  the  sunbeams  seem  to  sleep  so 
quietly,  one  would  think  that  there  at  least 
the  dead  might  rest  in  peace.  On  one  side  of 
the  church  extends  a  wide  woody  dell,  along 
which  raves  a  large  brook  among  broken  rocks 
and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Over  a  deep  black 
part  of  the  stream,  not  far  from  the  church, 
was  formerly  thrown  a  wooden  bridge ;  the 
road  that  led  to  it,  and  the  bridge  itself,  were 
thickly  shaded  by  overhanging  trees,  which 
cast  a  gloom  about  it,  even  in  the  daytime, 
but  occasioned  a  fearful  darkness  at  night. 
This  was  one  of  the  favorite  haunts  of  the 
headless  horseman  ;  and  the  place  where  he 
was  most  frequently  encountered.  The  tale 
was  told  of  old  Brouvver,  a  most  heretical  dis 
believer  in  ghosts,  how  he  met  the  horseman 
returning  from  his  foray  into  Sleepy  Hollow, 
and  was  obliged  to  get  up  behind  him  ;  how 
they  galloped  over  bush  and  brake,  over  hill 
and  swamp,  until  they  reached  the  bridge;  when 
the  horseman  suddenly  turned  into  a  skeleton, 
threw  old  Brouwer  into  the  brook,  and  sprang 
away  over  the  tree- tops  with  a  clap  of  thunder. 
This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a 


288 


thrice  marvellous  adventure  of  Brom  Bones, 
who  made  light  of  the  galloping  Hessian  as  an 
arrant  jockey.  He  affirmed  that,  on  returning 
one  night  from  the  neighboring  village  of  Sing 
Sing,  he  had  been  overtaken  by  this  midnight 
trooper  ;  that  he  had  offered  to  race  with  him 
for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should  have  won  it 
too,  for  Daredevil  beat  the  goblin  horse  all 
hollow,  but,  just  as  they  came  to  the  church 
bridge,  the  Hessian  bolted,  and  vanished  in 
a  flash  of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  under 
tone  with  which  men  talk  in  the  dark,  the 
countenances  of  the  listeners  only  now  and 
then  receiving  a  casual  gleam  from  the  glare 
of  a  pipe,  sank  deep  in  the  mind  of  Ichabod. 
He  repaid  them  in  kind  with  large  extracts 
from  his  invaluable  author,  Cotton  Mather, 
and  added  many  marvellous  events  that  had 
taken  place  in  his  native  State  of  Connecticut, 
and  fearful  sights  which  he  had  seen  in  his 
nightly  walks  about  the  Sleepy  Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old 
farmers  gathered  together  their  families  in 
their  wagons,  and  were  heard  for  some  time 
rattling  along  the  hollow  roads,  and  over  the 
distant  hills.  Some  of  the  damsels  mounted 
on  pillions  behind  their  favorite  swains,  and 
their  light-hearted  laughter,  mingling  with  the 


Cbe  Zeoenfc  of  Sleepy  l5ollo\v 

clatter  of  hoofs,  echoed  along  the  silent  wood 
lands,  sounding  fainter   and  fainter  until  they 
gradually  died  away— and  the  late  scene  of  noise 
and  frolic  was  all  silent  and  deserted.     Ichabod 
only  lingered  behind,  according  to  the  custom 
of  country  lovers,  to  have  a  tttc-&-t$te  with  the 
heiress,   fully  convinced  that  he  was  now  on 
the  high  road  to  success.     What    passed    at 
this  interview  I  will  not  pretend  to  say,  for  in 
fact  I  do  not  know.     Something,  however,  I 
fear   me,  must  have  gone  wrong,  for  he  cer 
tainly  sallied  forth,  after  no  very  great  interval, 
with  an  air  quite  desolate  and  chop-fallen.— 
Oh,  these  women  !  these  women  !     Could  that 
girl  have  been  playing  off  any  of  her  coquet 
tish  tricks? — Was   her  encouragement  of  the 
poor  pedagogue  all  a  mere  sham  to  secure  her 
conquest  of  his  rival  ? — Heaven   only  knows, 
not  I  !— Let  it  suffice  to  say,  Ichabod  stole  forth 
with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  sacking  a 
hen-roost,    rather    than    a    fair  lady's    heart. 
Without  looking  to  the  right  or  left  to  notice 
the  scene  of  rural  wealth  on  which  he  had  so 
often  gloated,  he  went   straight  to  the  stable, 
and    with    several    hearty    cuffs    and    kicks, 
roused  his  steed  most  uncourteously  from  the 
comfortable  quarters  in  which  he  was  soundly 
sleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains  of  corn  and 
oats,  and  whole  valleys  of  timothy  and  clover. 

VOL.  II.— 19 


fr. 


2QO 


Cbe  SfcetcbOBoofc 


It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night  that 
Ichabod,  heavy-hearted  and  crestfallen,  pur 
sued  his  travel  homewards,  along  the  sides  of 
the  lofty  hills  which  rise  above  Tarry  Town, 
and  which  he  had  traversed  so  cheerily  in  the 
afternoon.  The  hour  was  as  dismal  as  him 
self.  Far  below  him,  the  Tappan  Zee  spread 
its  dusky  and  indistinct  waste  of  waters,  with 
here  and  there  the  tall  mast  of  a  sloop  riding 
quietly  at  anchor  under  the  land.  In  the  dead 
hush  of  midnight  he  could  even  hear  the  bark 
ing  of  the  watch-dog  from  the  opposite  shore 
of  the  Hudson  ;  but  it  was  so  vague  and  faint 
as  only  to  give  an  idea  of  his  distance  from  this 
faithful  companion  of  man.  Now  and  then, 
too,  the  long-drawn  crowing  of  a  cock,  acci 
dentally  awakened,  would  sound  far,  far  off, 
from  some  farm-house  away  among  the  hills 
—but  it  was  like  a  dreaming  sound  in  his  ear. 
No  signs  of  life  occurred  near  him,  but  occa 
sionally  the  melancholy  chirp  of  a  cricket,  or 
perhaps  the  gutteral  twang  of  a  bull-frog,  from 
a  neighboring  marsh,  as  if  sleeping  uncom 
fortably,  and  turning  suddenly  in  his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he 
had  heard  in  the  afternoon,  now  came  crowd 
ing  upon  his  recollection.  The  night  grew 
darker  and  darker  ;  the  stars  seemed  to  sink 
deeper  in  the  sky,  and  driving  clouds  occa- 


of  Slecpp  t)ollo\v 


sionally  hid  thc-in  from  his  sight.  He  had 
never  felt  so  lonely  and  dismal.  He  was, 
moreover,  approaching  the  very  place  where 
many  of  the  scenes  of  the  ghost-stories  had 
been  laid.  In  the  centre  of  the  road  stood  an 
enormous  tulip-tree,  which  towered  like  a  giant 
above  all  the  other  trees  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  formed  a  kind  of  landmark.  Its  limbs 
were  gnarled,  and  fantastic,  large  enough  to 
form  trunks  for  ordinary  trees,  twisting  down 
almost  to  the  earth,  and  rising  again  into  the 
air.  It  was  connected  with  the  tragical  story 
of  the  unfortunate  Andre,  who  had  been 
taken  prisoner  hard  by  ;  and  was  universally 
known  by  the  name  of  Major  Andre's  tree. 
The  common  people  regarded  it  with  a  mix 
ture  of  respect  and  superstition,  partly  out  of 
sympathy  for  the  fate  of  its  ill-starred  name 
sake,  and  partly  from  the  tales  of  strange 
sights  and  doleful  lamentations  told  concern 
ing  it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree,  he 
began  to  whistle  :  he  thought  his  whistle  was 
answered, — it  was  but  a  blast  sweeping  sharply 
through  the  dry  branches.  As  he  approached 
a  little  nearer,  he  thought  he  saw  something 
white,  hanging  in  the  midst  of  the  tree, — he 
paused  and  ceased  whistling  ;  but  on  looking 
more  narrowly,  perceived  that  it  was  a  place 


292 


Sfcetcb*JBoofc 


where  the  tree  had  been  scathed  by  lightning, 
and  the  white  wood  laid  bare.  Suddenly  he 
heard  a  groan,  —  his  teeth  chattered  and  his 
knees  smote  against  the  saddle  :  it  was  but  the 
rubbing  of  one  huge  bough  upon  another,  as 
they  were  swayed  about  by  the  breeze.  He 
passed  the  tree  in  safety  ;  but  new  perils  lay 
before  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree  a 
small  brook  crossed  the  road,  and  ran  into  a 
marshy  and  thickly  wooded  glen,  known  by 
the  name  of  Wiley's  swamp.  A  few  rough 
logs,  laid  side  by  side,  served  for  a  bridge  over 
this  stream.  On  that  side  of  the  road  where 
the  brook  entered  the  wood,  a  group  of  oaks 
and  chestnuts,  matted  thick  with  wild  grape 
vines,  threw  a  cavernous  gloom  over  it.  To 
pass  this  bridge  was  the  severest  trial.  It  was 
at  this  identical  spot  that  the  unfortunate 
Andre  was  captured,  and  under  the  covert  of 
those  chestnuts  and  vines  were  the  sturdy 
yeomen  concealed  who  surprised  him.  This 
has  ever  since  been  considered  a  haunted 
stream,  and  fearful  are  the  feelings  of  the 
school  boy  who  has  to  pass  it  alone  after  dark. 

As  he  approached  the  stream,  his  heart  began 
to  thump  ;  he  summoned  up,  however,  all  his 
resolution,  gave  his  horse  half  a  score  of  kicks 
in  the  ribs,  and  attempted  to  dash  briskly 


, 


Gbe  XcflcnD  of  Sleeps  follow 

across  the  bridge  ;  but  instead  of  starting  for 
ward,  the  perverse  old  animal  made  a  lateral 
movement,  and  ran  broadside  against  the  fence. 
Ichabod,  whose  fears  increased  with  the  delay, 
jerked  the  reins  on  the  other  side,  and  kicked 
lustily  with  the  contrary  foot :  it  was  all  in 
vain  ;  his  steed  started,  it  is  true,  but  it  was 
only  to  plunge  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  road 
into  a  thicket  of  brambles  and  alder  bushes. 
The  schoolmaster  now  bestowed  both  whip 
and  heel  upon  the  starveling  ribs  of  old  Gun 
powder,  who  dashed  forward,  snuffling  and 
snorting,  but  came  to  a  stand  just  by  the  bridge, 
with  a  suddenness  that  had  nearly  sent  his 
rider  sprawling  over  his  head.  Just  at  this 
moment  a  plashy  tramp  by  the  side  of  the 
bridge  caught  the  sensitive  ear  of  Ichabod. 
In  the  dark  shadow  of  the  grove,  on  the  mar 
gin  of  the  brook,  he  beheld  something  huge, 
misshapen,  black,  and  towering.  It  stirred 
not,  but  seemed  gathered  up  in  the  gloom,  like 
some  gigantic  monster  ready  to  spring  upon 
the  traveller. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose 
upon  his  head  with  terror.  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  To  turn  and  fly  was  now  too  late  ;  and 
besides,  what  chance  was  there  of  escaping 
ghost  or  goblin,  if  such  it  was,  which  could 
ride  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind  ?  Summoning 


up,  therefore,  a  show  of  courage,  he  demanded 
in  stammering  accents — "Who  are  you?" 
He  received  no  reply.  He  repeated  his  de 
mand  in  a  still  more  agitated  voice.  Still  there 
was  no  answer.  Once  more  he  cudgelled  the 
sides  of  the  inflexible  Gunpowder,  and,  shut 
ting  his  eyes,  broke  forth  with  involuntary 
fervor  into  a  psalm-tune.  Just  then  the  shad 
owy  object  of  alarm  put  itself  in  motion,  and, 
with  a  scramble  and  a  bound,  stood  at  once  in 
the  middle  of  the  road.  Though  the  night 
was  dark  and  dismal,  3^et  the  form  of  the  un 
known  might  now  in  some  degree  be  ascer 
tained.  He  appeared  to  be  a  horseman  of 
large  dimensions,  and  mounted  on  a  black  horse 
of  powerful  frame.  He  made  no  offer  of  moles 
tation  or  sociability,  but  kept  aloof  on  one  side 
of  the  road,  jogging  along  on  the  blind  side  of 
old  Gunpowder,  who  had  now  got  over  his 
fright  and  waywardness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange 
midnight  companion,  and  bethought  himself 
of  the  adventure  of  Brom  Bones  with  the  Gal 
loping  Hessian,  now  quickened  his  steed,  in 
hopes  of  leaving  him  behind.  The  stranger, 
however,  quickened  his  horse  to  an  equal  pace. 
Ichabod  pulled  up,  and  fell  into  a  walk,  think 
ing  to  lag  behind, — the  other  did  the  same. 
His  heart  began  to  sink  within  him  ;  he  en- 
fe 


.  i/T?^       '  ' 

let 


CTbc  Xccicnfc  of  Sleepy  t>cllo\v 


-'95 


deavored  to  resume  his  psalm-tune,  but  his 
parched  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth, 
and  be  could  not  utter  a  stave.  There  was 
something  in  the  moody  and  dogged  silence 
of  this  jKTtinacioiis  companion,  that  was  mys 
terious  and  appalling.  It  was  soon  fearfully 
accounted  for.  On  mounting  a  rising  ground, 
which  brought  the  figure  of  his  fellow-traveller 
in  relief  against  the  sky,  gigantic  in  height, 
and  muffled  in  a  cloak,  Ichabod  was  horror- 
struck,  on  perceiving  that  he  was  headless  ! — 
but  his  horror  was  still  more  increased,  on 
observing  that  the  head,  which  should  have 
rested  on  his  shoulders,  was  carried  before  him 
on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle  :  his  terror  rose 
to  desperation  ;  he  rained  a  shower  of  kicks 
and  blows  upon  Gunpowder,  hoping,  by  a  sud 
den  movement,  to  give  his  companion  the  slip, 
—but  the  spectre  started  full  jump  with  him. 
Away  then  they  dashed,  through  thick  and 
thin  ;  stones  flying,  and  sparks  flashing  at 
every  bound.  Icbabod's  flimsy  garments  flut 
tered  in  the  air,  as  he  stretched  his  long  lank 
bod}-  away  over  his  horse's  head,  in  the  eager 
ness  of  his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns 
off  to  Sleepy  Hollow  ;  but  Gunpowder,  who 
seemed  possesed  with  a  demon,  instead  of  keep 
ing  up  it,  made  an  opposite  turn,  and  plunged 


*••    ) 


296 


headlong  downhill  to  the  left.  This  road  leads 
through  a  sandy  hollow,  shaded  by  trees  for 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  where  it  crosses  the 
bridge  famous  in  goblin  story,  and  just  beyond 
swells  the  green  knoll  on  which  stands  the 
whitewashed  church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his 
unskilful  rider  an  apparent  advantage  in  the 
chase  ;  but  just  as  he  had  got  half-way  through 
the  hollow,  the  girths  of  the  saddle  gave  way, 
and  he  felt  it  slipping  from  under  him.  He 
seized  it  by  the  pommel,  and  endeavored  to 
hold  it  firm,  but  in  vain  ;  and  had  just  time  to 
save  himself  by  clasping  old  Gunpowder  round 
the  neck,  when  the  saddle  fell  to  the  earth,  and 
he  heard  it  trampled  underfoot  by  his  pursuer. 
For  a  moment,  the  terror  of  Hans  Van  Ripper's 
wrath  passed  across  his  mind — for  it  was  his 
Sunday  saddle  ;  but  this  was  no  time  for  petty 
fears  ;  the  goblin  was  hard  on  his  haunches  ; 
and  (unskilful  rider  that  he  was  !  )  he  had 
much  ado  to  maintain  his  seat  ;  sometimes 
slipping  on  one  side,  sometimes  on  another, 
and  sometimes  jolted  on  the  high  ridge  of  his 
horse's  backbone,  with  a  violence  that  he  verily 
feared  would  cleave  him  asunder. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  him 
with  the  hopes  that  the  church-bridge  was  at 
hand.  The  wavering  reflection  of  a  silver  star 


\ 


Cbc  Xeacno  of  Sleeps 


in  the  bosom  of  the  brook  told  him  that  he 
was  not  mistaken.  He  saw  the  walls  of  the 
church  dimly  glaring  under  the  trees  beyond. 
He  recollected  the  place  where  Brom  Bones' 
ghostly  competitor  had  disappeared.  "  If  I 
can  but  reach  that  bridge,"  thought  Ichabod, 
"  I  am  safe."  Just  then  he  heard  the  black 
steed  panting  and  blowing  close  behind  him  ; 
he  even  fancied  that  he  felt  his  hot  breath. 
Another  convulsive  kick  in  the  ribs,  and  old 
Gunpowder  sprang  upon  the  bridge  ;  he  thun 
dered  over  the  resounding  planks  ;  he  gained 
the  opposite  side  ;  and  now  Ichabod  cast  a  look 
behind  to  see  if  his  pursuer  should  vanish, 
according  to  rule,  in  a  flash  of  fire  and  brim 
stone.  Just  then  he  saw  the  goblin  rising  in 
his  stirrups,  and  in  the  very  act  of  hurling  his 
head  at  him.  Ichabod  endeavored  to  dodge 
the  horrible  missile,  but  too  late.  It  encoun 
tered  his  cranium  with  a  tremendous  crash, — 
he  was  tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and 
Gunpowder,  the  black  steed,  and  the  goblin 
rider,  passed  by  like  a  whirlwind. 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found 
without  his  saddle,  and  with  the  bridle  under  his 
feet,  soberly  cropping  the  grass  at  his  master's 
gate.  Ichabod  did  not  make  his  appearance 
at  breakfast  ; — dinner-hour  came,  but  no  Icha 
bod.  The  boys  assembled  at  the  school-house, 


vx   ' 


and  strolled  idly  about  the  banks  of  the  brook  ; 
but  no  schoolmaster.  Hans  Van  Ripper  now 
began  to  feel  some  uneasiness  about  the  fate  of 
poor  Ichabod,  and  his  saddle.  An  inquiry 
was  set  on  foot,  and  after  diligent  investigation 
they  came  upon  his  traces.  In  one  part  of 
the  road  leading  to  the  church  was  found  the 
saddle  trampled  in  the  dirt ;  the  tracks  of  horses' 
hoofs  deeply  dented  in  the  road,  and  evidently 
at  furious  speed,  were  traced  to  the  bridge,  be 
yond  which,  on  the  bank  of  a  broad  part  of  the 
brook,  where  the  water  ran  deep  and  black, 
was  found  the  hat  of  the  unfortunate  Ichabod, 
and  close  beside  it  a  shattered  pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of 
the  schoolmaster  was  not  to  be  discovered. 
Hans  Van  Ripper,  as  executor  of  his  estate, 
examined  the  bundle  which  contained  all  his 
worldly  effects.  They  consisted  of  two  shirts 
and  a  half  ;  two  stocks  for  the  neck  ;  a  pair  or 
two  of  worsted  stockings,  an  old  pair  of  corduroy 
small-clothes  ;  a  rusty  razor  ;  a  book  of  psalm- 
tunes,  full  of  dogs'  ears  ;  and  a  broken  pitch- 
pipe.  As  to  the  books  and  furniture  of  the 
school-house,  they  belonged  to  the  community, 
excepting  Cotton  Mather's  History  of  Witch 
craft,  a  New  England  Almanac,  and  a  book  of 
dreams  and  fortune-telling  ;  in  which  last  was 
a  sheet  of  foolscap  much  scribbled  and  blotted 


Dashed,  St<> 
Sparks  Flashii 


Cbc  XcflcnO  of 


Y.\ 


in  several  fruitless  attempts  to  make  a  copy  of 
verses  in  honor  of  the  heiress  of  Van  Tassel. 
These  magic  books  and  the  poetic  scrawl  were 
forthwith  consigned  to  the  flames  by  Hans  Van 
Ripper  ;  who  from  that  time  forward  deter 
mined  to  send  his  children  no  more  to  school  ; 
observing,  that  he  never  knew  any  good  come 
of  this  same  reading  and  writing.  Whatever 
money  the  schoolmaster  possessed,  and  he  had 
received  his  quarter's  pay  but  a  day  or  two 
before,  he  must  have  had  about  his  person  at 
the  time  of  his  disappearance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  specu 
lation  at  the  church  on  the  following  Sunday. 
Knots  of  gazers  and  gossips  were  collected  in 
the  churchyard,  at  the  bridge,  and  at  the  spot 
where  the  hat  and  pumpkin  had  been  found. 
The  stories  of  Brouwer,  of  Bones,  and  a  whole 
budget  of  others,  were  called  to  mind  ;  and 
when  they  had  diligently  considered  them  all, 
and  compared  them  with  the  symptoms  of 
the  present  case,  they  shook  their  heads,  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Ichabod  had  been 
carried  off  by  the  Galloping  Hessian.  As  he 
was  a  bachelor,  and  in  nobody's  debt,  nobody 
troubled  his  head  any  more  about  him.  The 
school  was  removed  to  a  different  quarter  of 
the  Hollow,  and  another  pedagogue  reigned 
in  his  stead. 


•ai 


3oo 


Cbe  SfcetcbOBoofc 


It  is  true,  an  old  farmer,  who  had  been 
down  to  New  York  on  a  visit  several  years 
after,  and  from  whom  this  account  of  the 
ghostly  adventure  was  received,  brought  home 
the  intelligence  that  Ichabod  Crane  was  still 
alive ;  that  he  had  left  the  neighborhood, 
partly  through  fear  of  the  goblin  and  Hans 
Van  Ripper,  and  partly  in  mortification  at 
having  been  suddenly  dismissed  by  the  heiress  ; 
that  he  had  changed  his  quarters  to  a  distant 
part  of  the  country  ;  had  kept  school  and 
studied  law  at  the  same  time,  had  been  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar,  turned  politician,  election 
eered,  written  for  the  newspapers,  and  finally 
had  been  made  a  justice  of  the  Ten  Pound 
Court.  Brom  Bones  too,  who  shortly  after  his 
rival's  disappearance  conducted  the  blooming 
Katrina  in  triumph  to  the  altar,  was  observed 
to  look  exceedingly  knowing  whenever  the 
story  of  Ichabod  was  related,  and  always 
burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  mention  of  the 
pumpkin  ;  which  led  some  to  suspect  that  he 
knew  more  about  the  matter  than  he  chose  to 
tell. 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are 
the  best  judges  of  these  matters,  maintain  to 
this  day  that  Ichabod  was  spirited  away  by 
supernatural  means  ;  and  it  is  a  favorite  story 
often  told  about  the  neighborhood  round  the 


of 


t)cllo\v 


301 


winter  evening  fire.  The  bridge  became  more 
than  ever  an  object  of  superstitious  awe,  and 
that  may  be  the  reason  why  the  road  has  been 
altered  of  late  years,  so  as  to  approach  the 
church  by  the  border  of  the  millpond.  The 
school -house,  being  deserted,  soon  fell  to  decay, 
and  was  reported  to  be  haunted  by  the  ghost 
of  the  unfortunate  pedagogue  ;  and  the  plough- 
boy,  loitering  homeward  of  a  still  summer 
evening,  has  often  fancied  his  voice  at  a  dis 
tance,  chanting  a  melancholy  psalm-tune, 
among  the  tranquil  solitudes  of  Sleepy 
Hollow. 

POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND     IN     THE     HANDWRITING  OF    MR.    KNICKER 
BOCKER. 

THE  preceding  Tale  is  given,  almost  in  the  precise 
words  in  which  I  heard  it  related  at  a  Corporation 
meeting  of  the  ancient  city  of  Mauhattoes,  at  which 
were  present  many  of  its  sagest  and  most  illustrious 
burghers.  The  narrator  was  a  pleasant,  shabby,  gen 
tlemanly  old  fellow,  in  pepper-and-salt  clothes,  with 
a  sadly  humorous  face  ;  and  one  whom  I  strongly  sus 
pected  of  being  poor,— he  made  such  efforts  to  be  en 
tertaining.  When  his  story  was  concluded,  there  was 
much  laughter  and  approbation,  particularly  from 
two  or  three  deputy  aldermen,  who  had  been  asleep 
the  greater  part  of  the  time.  There  was,  however, 


302 


one  tall,  dry-looking  old  gentleman,  with  beetling 
eyebrows,  who  maintained  a  grave  and  rather  severe 
face  throughout ;  now  and  then  folding  his  arms, 
inclining  his  head,  and  looking  down  upon  the  floor, 
as  if  turning  a  doubt  over  in  his  mind.  He  was  one 
of  your  wary  men,  who  never  laugh,  but  on  good 
grounds — when  they  have  reason  and  the  law  on  their 
side.  When  the  mirth  of  the  rest  of  the  company  had 
subsided  and  silence  was  restored,  he  leaned  one  arm 
on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  and  sticking  the  other 
akimbo,  demanded,  with  a  slight  but  exceedingly 
sage  motion  of  the  head,  and  contraction  of  the  brow, 
what  was  the  moral  of  the  story,  and  what  it  went 
to  prove  ? 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of 
wine  to  his  lips,  as  a  refreshment  after  his  toils, 
paused  for  a  moment,  looked  at  his  inquirer  with  an 
air  of  infinite  deference,  and,  lowering  the  glass 
slowly  to  the  table,  observed,  that  the  story  was  in 
tended  most  logically  to  prove  : 

"  There  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advan 
tages  and  pleasures — provided  we  will  but  take  a  joke 
as  we  find  it  ; 

"  That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin 
troopers  is  likely  to  have  rough  riding  of  it. 

"  Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the 
hand  of  a  Dutch  heiress,  is  a  certain  step  to  high  pre 
ferment  in  the  state." 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold 
closer  after  this  explanation,  being  sorely  puzzled  by 
ratiocination  of  the  syllogism  ;  while,  methought,  the 
one  in  pepper-and-salt  eyed  him  with  something  of  a 
triumphant  leer.  At  length  he  observed,  that  all  this 


Cbc  OLcflcnD  of  Sleepy  IxMlow 


was  very  well,  but  still  he  thought  the  story  a  little 
on  the  extravagant — there  were  one  or  two  points  on 
which  he  had  his  doubts. 

"Faith,  sir,"   replied    the  story-teller,  "as  to  that 
matter,  I  don't  believe  one  half  of  it  myself." 

D.  K. 


X'JEtuoot* 

Go,  little  booke,  God  send  thee  good  passage, 
And  specially  let  this  be  thy  prayere, 
Unto  them  all  that  thee  will  read  or  hear, 
Where  thou  art  wrong,  after  their  help  to  call, 
Thee  to  correct  in  any  part  or  all. 

CHAUCER'S  Belle  Dame  sans  Mercie. 

IN  concluding  a  second  volume  of  the  Sketch- 
Book,  the  Author  cannot  but  express  his 
deep  sense  of  the  indulgence  with  which 
his  first  has  been  received,  and  of  the  lib 
eral  disposition  that  has  been  evinced  to 
treat  him  with  kindness  as  a  stranger.     Kven 
the  critics,  whatever  may  be  said  of  them  by 
others,  he  has  found  to  be  a  singularly  gentle 
and   good-natured  race  ;    it  is  true  that  each 
has  in  turn  objected  to  some  one  or  two  arti 
cles,  and  that  these  individual  exceptions,  taken 
in  the  aggregate,  would  amount  almost  to  a 
total  condemnation  of  his  work  ;  but  then  he 
has  been  consoled  by  observing,  that  what  one 
has  particularly  censured,  another  has  as  par 
ticularly  praised  ;    and   thus,  the   encomiums 

*  Closing  the  second  volume  of  the  London  edition. 


X'Envoi 


being  set  off  against  the  objections,  he  finds 
his  work,  upon  the  whole,  commended  far 
beyond  its  deserts. 

He  is  aware  that  he  runs  a  risk  of  forfeiting 
much  of  this  kind  favor  by  not  following  the 
counsel  that  has  been  liberally  bestowed  upon 
him  ;  for  where  abundance  of  valuable  advice 
is  given  gratis,  it  may  seem  a  man's  own  fault 
if  he  should  go  astray.  He  can  only  say,  in 
his  vindication,  that  he  faithfully  determined, 
for  a  time,  to  govern  himself  in  his  second  vol 
ume  by  the  opinions  passed  upon  his  first  ;  but 
he  was  soon  brought  to  a  stand  by  the  con 
trariety  of  excellent  counsel.  One  kindly  ad- 
vi>ed  him  to  avoid  the  ludicrous  ;  another  to 
shun  the  pathetic  ;  a  third  assured  him  that  he 
was  tolerable  at  description,  but  cautioned  him 
to  leave  narrative  alone  ;  while  a  fourth  de 
clared  that  he  had  a  very  pretty  knack  at  turn 
ing  a  story,  and  was  really  entertaining  when 
in  a  pensive  mood,  but  was  grievously  mistaken 
if  he  imagined  himself  to  possess  a  spirit  of 
humor. 

Thus  perplexed  by  the  advice  of  his  friends, 
who  each  in  turn  closed  some  particular  path, 
but  left  him  all  the  world  beside  to  range  in, 
he  found  that  to  follow  all  their  counsels  would, 
in  fact,  be  to  stand  still.  He  remained  for  a 
time  sadly  embarrassed  ;  when,  all  at  once,  the 


VOL.   II.  — 20 


• 


thought  struck  him  to  ramble  on  as  he  had 
begun  ;  that  his  work  being  miscellaneous,  and 
written  for  different  humors,  it  could  not  be 
expected  that  any  one  would  be  pleased  with 
the  whole  ;  but  that  if  it  should  contain  some 
thing  to  suit  each  reader,  his  end  would  be 
completely  answered.  Few  guests  sit  down  to 
a  varied  table  with  an  equal  appetite  for  even* 
dish.  One  has  an  elegant  horror  of  a  roasted 
pig  ;  another  holds  a  curry  or  a  devil  in  utter 
abomination  ;  a  third  cannot  tolerate  the 
ancient  flavor  of  venison  and  wild-fowl  ;  and  a 
fourth,  of  truly  masculine  stomach,  looks  with 
sovereign  contempt  on  those  knick-knacks, 
here  and  there  dished  up  for  the  ladies.  Thus 
each  article  is  condemned  in  its  turn  ;  and  yet, 
amidst  this  variety  of  appetites,  seldom  does  a 
dish  go  away  from  the  table  without  being 
tasted  and  relished  by  some  one  or  other  of 
the  guests. 

With  these  considerations  he  ventures  to 
serve  up  this  second  volume  in  the  same 
heterogeneous  way  with  his  first  ;  simply  re 
questing  the  reader  if  he  should  find  here  and 
there  something  to  please  him,  to  rest  assured 
that  it  was  written  expressly  for  intelligent 
readers  like  himself;  but  entreating  him, 
should  he  find  anything  to  dislike,  to  tolerate 
it,  as  one  of  those  articles  which  the  author 


' Envoi 


307 


has  been  obliged  to  write  for  readers  of  a  less 
refined  taste. 

To  be  serious — The  author  is  conscious  of 
the  numerous  faults  and  imperfections  of  his 
work  ;  and  well  aware  how  little  he  is  disci  - 
plined  and  accomplished  in  the  arts  of  author 
ship.  His  deficiencies  are  also  increased  by  a 
diffidence  arising  from  his  jx?culiar  situation. 
He  finds  himself  writing  in  a  strange  land,  and 
appearing  before  a  public  which  he  has  been 
accustomed,  from  childhood,  to  regard  with 
the  highest  feelings  of  awe  and  reverence.  He 
is  full  of  solicitude  to  deserve  their  approba 
tion,  yet  finds  that  very  solicitude  continually 
embarrassing  his  powers,  and  depriving  him 
of  that  ease  and  confidence  which  are  neces 
sary  to  successful  exertion.  vStill  the  kindness 
with  which  he  is  treated  encourages  him  to  go 
on,  hoping  that  in  time  he  may  acquire  a 
steadier  footing  ;  and  thus  he  proceeds,  half 
venturing,  half  shrinking,  surprised  at  his  own 
good  fortune,  and  wondering  at  his  own  temer 
ity. 


appendix 


NOTI-:S   CONCERNING    \VI.STM  INSTKR   ABBEY. 

TOWARD  the  end  of  the  sixth  century,  when  Britain, 
under  the  dominion  of  the  Saxons,  was  in  a  state  of 
barbarism  and  idolatry,  Pope  Gregory  the  Great, 
struck  with  the  beauty  of  some  Anglo-Saxon  youths 
exposed  for  sale  in  the  market-place  at  Rome,  con 
ceived  a  fancy  for  the  race,  and  determined  to  send 
missionaries  to  preach  the  gospel  among  these  comely 
but  benighted  islanders.  He  was  encouraged  to  this 
by  learning  that  Kthelbcrt,  king  of  Kent,  and  the 
most  potent  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  princes,  had  married 
Bertha,  a  Christian  prim-ess,  only  daughter  of  the  king 
of  Paris,  and  that  she  was  allowed  by  stipulation  the 
full  exercise  of  her  religion. 

The  shrewd  Pontiff  knew  the  influence  of  the  sex  in 
matters  of  religious  faith.  He  forthwith  despatched 
Augustine,  a  Roman  monk,  with  forty  associates,  to 
the  court  of  Ethelbert  at  Canterbury,  to  effect  the 
conversion  of  the  king  and  to  obtain  through  him  a 
foothold  in  the  island. 

Ethelbert  received  them  warily,  and  held  a  confer 
ence  in  the  open  air  ;  being  distrustful  of  foreign 
priestcraft,  and  fearful  of  spells  and  magic.  They 
ultimately  succeeded  in  making  him  as  good  a  Chris 
tian  as  his  wife  ;  the  conversion  of  the  king  of  course 
produced  the  conversion  of  his  loyal  subjects.  The 


310 


zeal  and  success  of  Augustine  were  rewarded  by  his 
being  made  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  being  en 
dowed  with  authority  over  all  the  British  churches. 

One  of  the  most  prominent  converts  was  Segebert 
of  Sebert,  king  of  the  Bast  Saxons,  a  nephew  of  Ethel- 
bert.  He  reigned  at  London,  of  which  Mellitus,  one 
of  the  Roman  monks  who  had  come  over  with  Augus 
tine,  was  made  bishop. 

Sebert,  in  605,  in  his  religious  zeal,  founded  a  mon 
astery  by  the  river-side  to  the  west  of  the  city,  on  the 
ruins  of  a  temple  of  Apollo,  being,  in  fact,  the  origin 
of  the  present  pile  of  Westminster  Abbey.  Great 
preparations  were  made  for  the  consecration  of  the 
church,  which  was  to  be  dedicated  to  St.  Peter.  On 
the  morning  of  the  appointed  day  Mellitus,  the  bishop, 
proceeded  with  great  pomp  and  solemnity  to  perform 
the  ceremony.  On  approaching  the  edifice  he  was 
met  by  a  fisherman,  who  informed  him  that  it  was 
needless  to  proceed,  as  the  ceremony  was  over.  The 
bishop  stared  with  surprise,  when  the  fisherman  went 
on  to  relate,  that  the  night  before,  as  he  was  in  his 
boat  on  the  Thames,  St.  Peter  appeared  to  him,  and 
told  him  that  he  intended  to  consecrate  the  church 
himself,  that  very  night.  The  apostle  accordingly 
went  into  the  church,  which  suddenly  became  illumin 
ated.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in  sumptuous 
style,  accompanied  by  strains  of  heavenly  music  and 
clouds  of  fragrant  incense.  After  this,  the  apostle 
came  into  the  boat  and  ordered  the  fisherman  to  cast 
his  net.  He  did  so,  and  had  a  miraculous  draught  of 
fishes  ;  one  of  which  he  was  commanded  to  present 
to  the  bishop,  and  to  signify  to  him  that  the  apostle 
had  relieved  him  from  the  necessity  of  consecrating 
the  church. 

/&»     r  etJIik  £  r$*  JfL 


Mellitns  was  a  wary  man,  slow  of  belief,  and 
required  confirmation  of  tin.-  fisherman's  tale.  He 
opened  the  church-doors,  and  beheld  wax  candles, 
crosses,  holy  water ;  oil  sprinkled  in  various  places, 
and  various  other  traces  of  a  grand  ceremonial.  It" 
he  had  still  any  lingering  doubts,  they  were  com 
pletely  removed  on  the  fisherman's  producing  the 
identical  fish  which  he  had  been  ordered  by  the  apostle 
to  present  to  him.  To  resist  this  would  have  been 
to  resist  ocular  demonstration.  The  good  bishop 
accordingly  was  convinced  that  the  church  had 
actually  been  consecrated  by  St.  Peter  in  person  ;  so 
he  reverently  abstained  from  proceeding  further  in 
the  business. 

The  foregoing  tradition  is  said  to  be  the  reason  why 
King  Edward  the  Confessor  chose  this  place  as  the 
site  of  a  religious  house  which  he  meant  to  endow. 
He  pulled  down  the  old  church  and  built  another  in 
its  place  in  1045.  In  this  his  remains  were  deposited 
in  a  magnificent  shrine. 

The  sacred  edifice  again  underwent  modifications, 
if  not  a  reconstruction,  by  Henry  III.,  in  1220,  and 
began  to  assume  its  present  appearance. 

Under  Henry  VIII.  it  lost  its  conventual  character, 
that  monarch  turning  the  monks  away,  and  seizing 
upon  the  revenues. 


KKLICS   OF    EDWARD    THK    CONFESSOR. 

A  curious  narrative  was  printed  in  1688,  by  one  of 
the  choristers  of  the  cathedral,  who  appears  to  have 
been  the  Paul  Pry  of  the  sacred  edifice,  giving  an 
account  of  his  rummaging  among  the  bones  of  Kdward 


Shctcb-JCoofc 


the  Confessor,  after  they  had  quietly  reposed  in  their 
sepulchre  upwards  of  six  hundred  years,  and  of  his 
drawing  forth  the  crucifix  and  golden  chain  of  the 
deceased  monarch.  During  eighteen  years  that  he 
had  officiated  in  the  choir,  it  had  been  a  common  tra 
dition,  he  says,  among  his  brother  choristers  and  the 
gray-headed  servants  of  the  abbey,  that  the  body  of 
King  Bdward  was  deposited  in  a  kind  of  chest  or  coffin, 
which  was  indistinctly  seen  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
shrine  erected  to  his  memory.  None  of  the  abbey 
gossips,  however,  had  ventured  upon  a  nearer  inspec 
tion,  until  the  worthy  narrator,  to  gratify  his  curiosity, 
mounted  to  the  coffin,  by  the  aid  of  a  ladder,  and 
found  it  to  be  made  of  wood,  apparently  very  strong 
and  firm,  being  secured  by  bands  of  iron. 

Subsequently,  in  1685,  on  taking  down  the  scaffold 
ing  used  in  the  coronation  of  James  II.,  the  coffin  was 
found  to  be  broken,  a  hole  appearing  in  the  lid, 
probably  made,  through  accident,  by  the  workmen. 
No  one  ventured,  however,  to  meddle  with  the  sacred 
depository  of  royal  dust,  until,  several  weeks  after 
wards,  the  circumstance  came  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  aforesaid  chorister.  He  forthwith  repaired  to  the 
abbey  in  company  with  two  friends,  of  congenial 
tastes,  who  were  desirous  of  inspecting  the  tombs. 
Procuring  a  ladder,  he  again  mounted  to  the  coffin, 
and  found  as  had  been  represented,  a  hole  in  the  lid 
about  six  inches  long  and  four  inches  broad,  just  in 
front  of  the  left  breast.  Thrusting  in  his  hand,  and 
groping  among  the  bones,  he  drew  from  underneath 
the  shoulder  a  crucifix,  richly  adorned  and  enamelled, 
affixed  to  a  gold  chain  twenty-four  inches  long. 
These  he  showed  to  his  inquisitive  friends,  who 
were  equally  surprised  with  himself. 


313 


"  At  that  time,"  says  lu\  "  when  I  took  the  cross  and 
chain  out  of  the  coffin,  I  drew  Hie  head  to  the  hole  and 
viewed  it,  being  very  sound  and  firm,  with  the  upper 
and  nether  jaws  whole  and  full  of  teeth,  and  a  list  of 
gold  above  an  inch  broad,  in  the  nature  of  a  coronet, 
surrounding  the  temples.  There  was  also  in  the 
coffin,  white  linen  and  gold-colored  flowered  silk, 
that  looked  indifferent  fresh  ;  but  the  least  stress  put 
thereto  showed  it  was  well  nigh  perished.  There  were 
ail  his  bones,  and  much  dust  likewise,  which  I  left  as 
I  found." 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  a  more  grotesque  lesson  to 
human  pride  than  the  skull  of  Edward  the  Confessor 
thus  irreverently  pulled  about  in  its  coffin  by  a  prying 
chorister,  and  brought  to  grin  face  to  face  with  him 
through  a  hole  in  tlu-  lid  ! 

Having  satisfied  his  curiosity,  the  chorister  put  the 
crucifix  and  chain  back  again  into  the  coffin,  and 
sought  the  dean,  to  apprise  him  of  his  discovery. 
The  dean  not  being  accessible  at  the  time,  and  fear 
ing  that  the  4<  holy  treasure  "  might  be  taken  away  by 
other  hands,  he  got  a  brother  chorister  to  accompany 
him  to  the  shrine  about  two  or  three  hours  afterwards, 
and  in  his  presence  again  drew  forth  the  relics. 
These  he  afterwards  delivered  on  his  knees  to  King 
James.  The  King  subsequently  had  the  old  coffin 
inclosed  in  a  new  one  of  great  strength  :  "  each  plank 
being  two  inches  thick  and  cramped  together  with 
large  iron  wedges,  where  it  now  remains  (1688)  as  a 
testimony  of  his  pious  care,  that  no  abuse  might  be 
offered  to  the  sacred  ashes  therein  deposited." 

As  the  history  of  this  shrine  is  full  of  moral,  I 
subjoin  a  description  of  it  in  modern  times.  "The 
solitary  and  forlorn  shrine,"  says  a  British  writer, 


"  now  stands  a  mere  skeleton  of  what  it  was.  A  few 
faint  traces  of  its  sparkling  decorations  inlaid  on  solid 
mortar  catches  the  rays  of  the  sun,  forever  set  on  its 
splendor.  .  .  .  Only  two  of  the  spiral  pillars 
remain.  The  wooden  Ionic  top  is  much  broken,  and 
covered  with  dust.  The  mosaic  is  picked  away  in 
every  part  within  reach,  only  the  lozenges  of  about  a 
foot  square  and  five  circular  pieces  of  the  rich  marble 
remain." — Malcom,  Land,  rediv. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A   MONUMENT  AIJvUDED  TO  IN  THE 
SKETCH 

Here  lyes  the  Loyal  Duke  of  Newcastle,  and  his 
Duchess  his  second  wife,  by  whom  he  had  no  issue. 
Her  name  was  Margaret  Lucas,  youngest  sister  to  the 
Lord  Lucas  of  Colchester,  a  noble  family  ;  for  all  the 
brothers  were  valiant,  and  all  the  sisters  virtuous. 
This  Duchess  was  a  wise,  witty,  and  learned  lady, 
which  her  many  Bookes  do  well  testify  :  she  was  a 
most  virtuous,  and  loveing  and  careful  wife,  and  was 
with  her  lord  all  the  time  of  his  banishment  and 
miseries,  and  when  he  came  home,  never  parted  from 
him  in  his  solitary  retirements. 


In  the  winter  time,  when  the  days  are  short,  the 
service  in  the  afternoon  is  performed  by  the  light  of 
tapers.  The  effect  is  fine  of  the  choir  partially  lighted 
up,  while  the  main  body  of  the  cathedral  and  the 
transepts  are  in  profound  and  cavernous  darkness. 
The  white  dresses  of  the  choristers  gleam  amidst  the 
deep  brown  of  the  open  slats  and  canopies ;  the 


partial  illumination  makes  enormous  shadows  from 
columns  and  screen-,  and  darting  into  the  surround 
ing  gloom,  catches  here  and  there  upon  a  sepulchral 
decoration,  or  monumental  effigy.  The  swelling 
notes  of  the  organ  accord  well  with  the  scene. 

When  the  service  is  over,  the  dean  is  lighted  to  his 
dwelling,  in  the  old  conventual  part  of  the  pile,  by  the 
boys  of  the  choir,  in  their  white  dresses,  bearing 
tapers,  and  the  procession  passes  through  the  abbey 
and  along  the  shadowy  cloisters,  lighting  up  angles 
and  arches  and  grim  sepulchral  monuments,  and  leav 
ing  all  behind  in  darkness. 


On  entering  the  cloisters  at  night  from  what  is  called 
the  Dean's  Yard,  the  eye  ranging  through  a  dark 
vaulted  passage  catches  a  distant  view  of  a  white 
marble  figure  reclining  on  a  tomb,  on  which  a  strong 
glare  thrown  by  a  gas-light  has  quite  a  spectral  effect. 
It  is  a  mural  monument  of  one  of  the  Pultneys. 


7 


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